Who Am I Again?
by ReluctantSlashFan
Summary: Shawn loses the one thing he relies on completely and now Lassiter has to make sure he stays alive. Can he do it or is he destined to fail? Disclaimer: I own nothing---I keep forgetting to put it in the chapters
1. Chapter 1

**I'm reposting this story because my page breaks disappeared and I had to make new ones.**

**Anyway, this story is entirely in Lassiter's point-of-view. And I don't own him or any other recognizable character. **

**With that said, I've gotta go…**

_**Psych**_

When I was sixteen I was involved in a robbery. I had been working at the grocery store in my home town, trying to bring in some extra money to help out my mother. It was a Tuesday in July; I was picking up an extra shift for a boy named Dylan Bryant. He was a slacker, thought he could charm the pants off of any woman, and had the null to give me a nickname-CL or something like that. He reminded me of someone else I know, someone I really wish would leave me alone sometimes.

On this particular day, Dylan had called in 'sick' to go surfing with some friends. So, I was called in to do the work he should have been doing. The manager, Jacob McGee-whom I thought was a very good leader, had held an air of authority no one could compete with; it was how I always thought my father would act-had me work as bagger. I normally stocked the shelves, people never my strong point, but today he had confidence in me or something.

I was helping a particularly old lady out to her car when I spotted a blue van pull into the parking lot. I didn't like the looks of the two guys who got out, neither one looking like they were going to grocery shop. The taller one was pale, with steely grey eyes. He had to be in his earlier thirties, the first signs of gray barely seen in his brown hair. The other guy, stockier than his friend, had shoulder length blond hair and a beard. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, his blue eyes sweeping the area. As much as I didn't like them, I had to be courteous. It was the motto of the store: "_Reggie's: Where our employees are trustworthy, likeable, and courteous. Open since 1962."_ So I merely followed the men into the store and walked back to my post. I did, however, keep my eyes on the two men until they disappeared behind some shelves.

Sixteen minutes later, after I had argued with a forty-something woman about the heft of a particular bag of potatoes, those two guys returned. Except they were carrying guns.

"Get on the ground," the first man snapped firing one lone bullet into the ceiling. We all dropped-seventeen people in all-to the ground. I could hear Meg, the twenty-something cashier I had been bagging for, gasping close by. She was scared, hell all of us were scared, and I really wanted to comfort her. But before I could move, a pair of feet approached me and a sneering voice said, "Give me your wallet, pretty boy."

I looked up at the shorter guy, a plastic bag shoved in my face seconds later. I never carried my wallet with me, never, for this reason alone. So all I could do was shake my head and say, "I don't have it."

"What, no wallet," he replied as he turned and said to his partner, "This one ain't got a wallet, J."

"No wallet, huh? Then take whatever else he's got." The man turned back to me, looking me up and down. He spotted the watch around my wrist and said, "That's a mighty pretty watch, boy. I bet that's worth a lot. How's about you put that in the bag."

I never took this watch off, it was a given to me by my grandfather the night before he died. It had survived two wars and thirty years of police duty. I couldn't hand it over to them, it was my prized possession. That, however, didn't stop the man from crouching down and grabbing my wrist. I tried to pull away, but he pistol whipped me. I was stunned for a few seconds, stars bursting across my eyes. I felt the man rip the watch from my wrist, pulling arm hair with it. He pulled away from me and walked back to his partner. My vision came back and I glanced at my empty wrist, feeling instantly naked.

The next twenty minutes were the most terrifying of my life. I watched as both men took everyone's possessions, as they stole from the registers, and as they killed.

They had been about to leave the store, carrying more money than they probably planned to steal, the shorter one had just taken a bag of potato chips off the rack. I noticed Jacob getting to his feet, trying to be stealthy. I tried to catch his eyes, my head shaking and eyes begging him to stay down. Instead, he tried to rush the guys, probably hoping to take them down long enough for one of the cashiers to call the cops. Except, the taller one turned around and shot him. Shot him point-blank between the eyes, killing him instantly. Several women screamed and I felt a numbing sensation hit me.

"Let's go," the other guy said and they disappeared out of the doors. I jumped to my feet, running after the two guys, only to watch them speed out of the parking lot and nearly take out a car.

What followed was just short of disappointing. I had to give my statement to a police officer who would give TJ Hooker a good name, had to endure hours of worried glances and quiet lectures from my mother about running toward danger, and countless police station visits only to find out the officers of my home town had allowed those criminals to get away. Those criminals who killed one of the few people I actually looked up to.

I had vowed that day, the Saturday I found out Jacob McGee's killers were still free, that I was going to become a cop and bring justice to as many law breaking, scumbags as I could get my hands on. And that's what I have stuck to…

_**PSYCH**_

**Present Day…**

Spencer was sitting in _my_ chair, feet up on _my_ desk, playing on _my_ computer. I had been gone for a minute, two tops, and already he had made himself at home. At home at MY desk. Not McNabb's or O'Hara's, mine. He was almost beckoning me to shoot him. One bullet, to the leg, get him out of commission for a while. My hands were inching toward my gun, but he had to look up at that moment.

That annoying smile crossed his face, the one that told me he knew exactly what I was planning. He exited out of whatever program he was on, put his feet back on the floor, and said, "Lassie, there you are."

"Spencer," I growled setting my files onto an already rather large pile of files. This case was really kicking my ass and I really didn't have time for Shawn Spencer Head 'Psychic' Consultant. "What the hell were you doing on my computer? And what are you doing here?"

"Playing solitaire," he replied spinning slowly in my chair. "It was a short game, but I was confident I would have won."

"What are you doing here," I repeated grabbing my chair's arms and stopping him in mid-spin, his face facing mine.

"The spirits wouldn't stop nagging me about this case of yours," he replied making me roll my eyes. Again with the spirits, who gives a flying fuck about the spirits? They didn't exist, or at least I didn't think they existed. I couldn't be one-hundred percent sure, but I still had my suspicions. I just needed to get proof.

"Tell the 'spirits' to leave it alone," I growled pushing away from the chair. "And get the hell out of my chair."

"Fair enough Lassie," he replied and stood up, the chair rolling a few inches as his legs brushed it. He walked around me, heading toward the exit. _Good, he's leaving,_ I thought with a sigh. I made to sit down, ready to look over the case's files for the hundredth time, when Spencer froze and turned around.

"What," I snapped meeting his eyes.

His hand went to the side of his head, fingers resting on his temple and eyes closing. He took a deep breath and said, "The wife. Check her again." Then he was gone, practically bouncing out of the police station. I rolled my eyes, again, and got back to work.

_**PSYCH**_

So, Spencer, I admit begrudgingly, was right. The wife had killed the husband for his life insurance. The fact that Spencer solved it didn't bug me as much as the pure fact that I missed that clue. The wife had been so convincing with her story, sounded so upset and giving all the right answers, that I just let her off the hook. Or O'Hara convinced me to let her off the hook. If I had just kept nitpicking at her story, asking more and more questions, she would have cracked. She would have cracked and Shawn Spencer would never have stuck his nose into the case.

I pulled into my driveway, my house looking back at me and practically saying, "_What can you do?_" Is that the first sign of insanity, making up voices for inanimate objects? Oh God, I hope not. That's all I needed, having Spencer succeed in driving me completely bonkers.

I opened my car door, pulling the keys from the ignition, and got out. I glanced at the lawn, making a mental note to mow it sometime in the near future. I used to have the neighbor kid do it, until his mother yelled at me for yelling at him on how to do it right. That woman was a complete psycho, screaming at me about how Tommy or Tony or whatever his name was, was only fifteen and didn't need to be treated like that. It wasn't my fault I defended myself, it wasn't my fault I yelled back at her. Yes, calling her an 'evil, old shrew' to her face was a bit harsh, but she was asking for it.

I sighed, locking and closing my car door. I trudged up the walk, rolling my neck in hopes of releasing the tension that was slowly building up. A long shower sounded good right now, followed by two hours of _Cops_ and bed. It was a guilty pleasure; I loved watching all the excuses criminals came up with to get off the hook. But those cops, like all cops in my opinion, never believed their bullshit. "_Take no bullshit from no one, Carlton. Never take bullshit from anyone_," was something my grandfather used to say to me.

I had just reached my front door when I noticed lights shining from my living room. I froze, hand going automatically for my gun. I had exactly eight guns hidden in my home, all in various and random places. If those two were unarmed when they showed up, two beams of light equals two stupid criminals, and looked in the right spots they wouldn't be for long. Which meant I had to act now.

The door was locked, I always locked it, but this time I didn't bother unlocking it. I slammed my foot into the door, hearing a loud crack as it flew open and crashed into the wall. I pointed my gun at the two criminals and shouted, "SBPD."

One of the two guys shined his flashlight in my eyes, blinding me suddenly, while the second rushed me and tackled me off the porch and onto the front lawn. I collided with the ground, the air knocked unceremoniously from my lungs. My gun flew out of my hand, landing with a small **thump** a few feet away from me.

The man weighed more than me, by a lot, and was capable of stunning me with one punch. He pushed himself off of me, walking away from me. I heard him lean over, a smile in his voice as he said, "Look, you dropped your gun."

"P…put that down," I managed to gasp out.

A growl of a motorcycle caught my ears, turning off as someone, a very familiar someone, called, "Hey!" I heard a gunshot, a yelp echoing through the air, and a **thud** of a body hitting the ground.

"Opps," the man said causing me to jump into action. Only I was the one to contemplate shooting Spencer, no one else. I kicked the man's legs out from underneath him, sending him falling to the ground. I jumped up, scooping my gun off the ground, and pointed it at him. "Stay down," I snapped pistol whipping him hard enough to knock him out.

I glanced over a Spencer, who wasn't moving, but before I could go to him I heard a war cry sound from behind me. Without thinking, I spun around and slammed my fist into the other man's face. He collided with the ground, blood dripping down his lip. I pulled my handcuffs from my belt, turning the split-lipped guy over, and handcuffed him. To make sure he stayed down, I slammed his head into the ground and knocked him out.

"Spencer," I said trekking across the lawn, cell phone already in my hand. He still wasn't moving, lying on his side. Blood was dripping from his head, making a small puddle underneath him. My stomach constricted, my mind already fearing the worse. He was shot in the head, the odds of surviving that type of injury was very slim. How was I going to tell his father or Guster? The chief? Or, my heart dropped, O'Hara?

I knelt next to him, afraid to touch him, when I noticed it wasn't a bullet wound. In fact, Spencer hadn't been shot at all. The man had completely missed the 'psychic'. I glanced at his bike, a bullet hole in one of the tires. Obviously, the man was a horrible shot. Spencer, not knowing that particular information, had dropped and ended up cracking his head on the sidewalk.

"Spencer," I grumbled dialing my phone. I put the thing to my ear, my other hand reaching out to tap him lightly on the face.

"911 Emergency," a woman's voice said, catching my attention.

"Yeah, this is Head Detective Carlton Lassiter from the Santa Barbara Police Department. I'm calling in a robbery at my home." I gave her the address, asking her to send an ambulance. "What's the estimated ETA?" I asked out of curiosity.

"About seven minutes. What is the state of the injuries?"

"I'm figuring a concussion," I replied tapping Spencer's face harder. "One of them cracked his head on the sidewalk."

"Try to keep him conscious and help will be there soon." I snapped my phone shut, turning my full attention to Spencer who was just coming to.

"Hey, Spencer, take it easy," I said putting a hand on his chest when he tried to move.

"What happened?" he asked sounding panicked. He was still trying to get up, still trying to break my restraint.

"You hit your head on the sidewalk," I informed him glancing behind me to make sure the two criminals were still down.

"What?" hazel eyes caught mine, his face fully panicked now. "W…who are you?"

"What? Spencer you better not being pulling my chain," I snapped actually believing he was joking. It would be a stupid joke, but not one beneath him. I was waiting for him to crack a smile and say, "_Sorry Lassie, I couldn't resist_." Except he didn't, his face blanched fully when he asked, "Who am I…?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Still not mine…**

_**Psych**_

I hate hospitals, there's no doubt about that. I can't stand the too clean smell, the pure fact that around every corner someone could be dying, or that every time I step into a hospital I have to visit a colleague who has been hurt on the job. I may not like Spencer real well, but he is still a colleague. Plus, the chief made me go and get checked out. Apparently getting tackled, flying off your porch, and landing on the ground, all with two-hundred plus pounds on top of you, is cause for a hospital visit in Karen's eyes. I told her I didn't need one, it was only a few bruises, but she insisted.

"So, what's the prognosis," O'Hara asked me, trying to sound casual but not quite managing it. Worry flooded her blue eyes for that annoyance named Spencer. If truth be told, I was a little worried about him, too. But it would be a cold day in Hell before I verbally repeated that.

"I'm bruised, that's it," I replied. She had been sitting in the waiting room since I called her. Yeah, she had to make the drive over here, but when she got here she hadn't left the waiting room… Why am I even trying to explain this?

"What about Shawn," she asked peeking around me toward the curtained off cubbyholes. I followed her gaze, taking in the outline of the 'psychic'. His mind was still a blank slate, the blow to the head severe enough to do a lot of damage. Vick had tried getting a hold of his father and Guster, but both were out of cell phone range. Henry was ice fishing with some friends in Minnesota and Guster was on some kind of retreat for his other job-where ever the hell he worked. I had overheard Spencer telling O'Hara yesterday, during one of his '_I'm bored, so let's annoying the hard working detectives of the SBPD'_ jaunts. He needs to get a hobby, something that doesn't involve giving me a headache.

"Carlton," O'Hara's voice snapped me back to reality. I hadn't realized I was still staring at the concealed 'psychic', my mind a million miles away.

"Um… the doctors haven't said anything to you?" I asked hoping I sounded nonchalant. After being partnered with O'Hara for almost five years I knew her quirks, and she wasn't too fond of people who didn't listen to her.

"No, and neither have you? What the hell happened?" her face was burning with curiosity and worry. She was right; I hadn't exactly told her anything. When I called all I told her was Spencer and I were being taken to the hospital and hung up. How was I going to tell Spencer's girlfriend-I still don't see what she sees in him-that he couldn't remember her. OR should I say 'her fiancé', since I guess that's what he is now. She has been flashing the ring around all damn week. If anyone were to ask me, I'd say it looks like one of those rings found in those quarter machines. With Spencer, it probably was. But O'Hara, with her happy-go-lucky attitude, didn't seem to care.

"Carlton," she snapped me back to reality again. "What happened?"

I took a deep breath, not wanting to tell her but knowing I had to, and said, "Two guys were inside my house."

"Thieves?" O'Hara hissed looking aghast. Her blue eyes widened and she stole another glance toward the still concealed Spencer. "Did they hurt him?"

"Let me finish," I said evasively. They hadn't hurt Spencer per se, he had hurt himself by dropping to the ground, but it was the man firing at Spencer that caused him to hurt himself. So... I guess they were both to blame. Yeah, that sounded about right.

"I came home…" and I told her the story. She calmly listened, keeping her interruptions to herself. When I finished she had her arms crossed, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth. I waited for her to mull over the story, knowing from my experience that a woman shouldn't be pushed into talking. They would eventually say what they wanted, no matter how much you DID NOT want to hear it.

"I can deal with this," O'Hara finally said, uncrossing her arms. "It's just an obstacle we have to get through." She nodded once, looking past me at the sound of a curtain being drawn. I turned, watching as the doctor walked toward us.

"Is he okay?" O'Hara asked pushing past me to confront the red head.

"The amnesia was triggered by a severe concussion," the doctor said. I had half a mind to roll my eyes and say, 'DUH.' Even a six-year-old could have told us that. I've heard illiterate criminals give me more intelligent responses than that. Honestly, give me a lab coat and I could be a doctor…

"Will his memory come back," O'Hara asked bringing me crashing back to reality for the third time that night.

"He has a slim chance of never regaining his memory, but I doubt that will happen. It'll probably take a few days, a few weeks tops, but he should start to remember things. Talking to him, reminding him of things should help. Just don't push him, let the memories come at their own pace.

"Mood swings will be common, so don't be alarmed if he's completely calm one moment and angry the next. There's also a chance his energy levels could fluctuate. It's just a few things to keep in mind." The doctor glanced back at Spencer, O'Hara and I following her gaze.

He was sitting on the edge of a gurney, eyes locked on the white tiles of the hospital's floor. It was odd, after knowing the guy for almost five years, to see him so still. He had a habit of going from slightly annoying to pain-in-the-ass in zero seconds flat. A part of me could probably get used to a quieter, more subdued Spencer, but I had a feeling the smaller, less Lassiter-like, part of me would miss his annoying quirks. I would just have to lock that part away.

"…to keep him for observations," the doctor was still talking, her red hair falling into her eyes. O'Hara was taking in every detail, nodding when she was supposed to. I couldn't help but be momentarily jealous of Spencer-once again Hell would need to be the host of penguins before I verbally admitted this-for having someone who really, truly cared for his well-being.

"And that's it. Tomorrow you can take him home." The doctor flipped her chart closed. Before she could walk away, O'Hara said, "Can I talk to him?"

"Yeah, it's going to be a few more minutes until we have a room. Just keep it to a minimum." O'Hara nodded and walked over to Spencer. I would have followed, but I was tired and really wanted to go home. Plus, a concussed Spencer, a healthy Spencer-any kind of Spencer really-I didn't want to deal with. So, I really hoped O'Hara didn't mind as I made my way to the elevators.

**PSYCH**

My house was a crime scene, so I had nowhere to go. I was a nomad, driving the streets of Santa Barbara. I was tired, until I stopped at a 7/11 and bought two giant cups of coffee and a package of jerky. Now, I was wired, a nomad, and really, really, really had to pee. That didn't sound really detective-like of me, but it's true. I had to pee.

I passed the Psych office, slowing down. I knew the place had a bathroom, I knew the place was empty, and I had a key. Spencer was not aware of this, no one was. I made a copy when I was framed for the murder Drimmer committed. Spencer had left a set of keys sitting on his desk, I had snatched them up, and now I had a key to their office.

I would have kept going, but my bladder was whining at me to stop. I hated whiners, they never got anything done, but the whiner in question was an organ in _my_ body. An organ that controlled whether or not I ended up with an infection. So, I ended up pulling my car a few stops away from the wretched beachside establishment.

Inside, the place was still a mess, looking more like a clubhouse than a business. How they stayed a success, all these years, was beyond me? I headed toward the bathroom first, getting my business done. Once through, I walked toward Spencer's desk.

It was a mess, papers and little trinkets scattered across it. There was a pineapple shaped stress ball sitting on the corner, a smiley face wearing sunglasses painted across it. A pen sat on top of a notebook, the words: _**Ways to annoy Lassie **_written across the top underlined. I rolled my eyes as I scanned the list.

_**Move his car exactly three feet from where he originally parked it.**_

_**Rearrange everything on his desk.**_

_**Leave three hundred messages on his answering machine so no one else can call.**_

_**Talk excessively about how **_**Cops **_**is the worst show on cable.**_

_**Talk excessively about how **_**Walker: Texas Ranger**_** is the worst show on cable.**_

_**Talk excessively about how all cop shows are the worst on cable (except **_**The**__**Mentalist**_** because that show is cool and **_**Numb3rs)**

I stopped reading after that, rolling my eyes. He had only done two of the several items on his list. He had, in fact, rearranged everything on my desk three days ago-I still couldn't find my stapler. And he had left thirty messages on my cell phone. It wasn't exactly three hundred but it did piss me off. They were stupid messages like: _'Lassie, you should try this new hair gel I got. It smells really good and my hair has never looked better. I can totally hook you up._' or '_Lassie, when Jules and I get married we would be honored it you'd be her maid of honor. She was too embarrassed to ask, so I told her I would_.'

I stood up, suddenly tired, and crossed the office to the couch crammed against the wall. I pushed a bunch of crap off of it and lay down. It didn't escape my mind that I had left the door unlocked, that I was giving any and all petty thieves an opening to steal whatever they pleased, but I was out before I could really do anything about it.

Ringing woke me, ringing that was coming from the most random place: my pocket. I rolled over, onto my back, and dug my phone from my pocket. Through blurry eyes I was able to read **Vick** across my screen. I flipped my phone open, tremendously aware of the pain shooting through me from sleeping on the lumpy couch.

"Yeah," I grumbled groggily, rubbing sleep from my eyes with my free hand.

"Lassiter, where are you?" Vick asked over the sound of several voices. I sat up, no longer tired, wondering what was going on.

"What's going on?" I asked deciding to not answer Karen's question.

"I need you to get to the station, now."

"Why?" I asked swinging my legs off the couch and getting to my feet.

"Because the two men who broke into your house, they've managed to escape custody." The chief barely got the words out of her mouth before I was running toward the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**I don't own them…**

_**Psych**_

"How the hell did they manage to escape," were the first words out of my mouth when I burst into Karen's office. I came close to knocking McNabb over, who had been exiting, the files he had been carrying spilling all over the floor. I stepped over them-yeah, I know I could have helped but this was a crisis-and stopped short of Vick's desk. She didn't even look up from her phone call, flashing me an index finger. I'm not an impatient man; I just don't like to wait for long periods of time. And no, they are not the same thing.

"Look Dr. Reynard, I realize Mr. Spencer needs to stay for observations but these men…" Karen paused, listening to whatever the doctor was saying. She sighed in frustration and said, "Well, can I at least post an officer outside his room?" another small pause. "Good, I'll send one of my officers over soon." She hung up, rubbing her forehead with her hands, and called, "McNabb!"

McNabb looked up from the pile he had managed to collect, his easy going attitude making him apparently A-O-freaking-Kay that I just turned his papers into an avalanche all over the floor. "Yeah, Chief." Always a smile on his face… Happy people bug me sometimes.

"I need you to head over to the hospital, keep an eye on Mr. Spencer."

"Okay, Chief," he said shuffling his haphazard pile. He nodded once, before rushing from the office. He practically tossed his pile onto his desk, most of the pages fluttering from the surface to the floor, and raced out the door.

"Chief…" I finally said turning to her.

"Carlton, as far as I know the two officers responsible for bringing them in were knocked unconscious."

"How could you let two rookies take those guys into custody? Why not McNabb or anyone else qualified to use handcuffs?" Yes, I was being hard on the rookies, but sometimes I wonder if the academy is going soft on them. Especially when they allow two criminals, the same two assholes that had broken into my house, get away. Damn rookies.

"Lassiter…" The chief started exasperated.

"Chief, I could have easily brought those two in. I had minimal if any bruises, nothing is broken… I told you a trip to the hospital was pointless." Before she could yell at me or lecture me or punch me-because the look on her face suggested to me that she wanted to hit me-I quickly changed the subject, "What have you done to stop these guys?"

"You mean besides blocking off all streets remotely close to your place, sending half my officers out looking for these guys, and making sure they don't go after Mr. Spencer who happens to have no memory?" the sarcasm was not missed, nor was it necessary.

"What can I do?" I asked my fingers itching to fire several rounds into the men. **Note to self: keep that comment to myself**.

"Nothing," Vick replied.

"I'm sorry, what?" I asked trying to keep the anger from my voice. I must have gone temporarily deaf because Karen did not tell me to do nothing. No, she couldn't have.

"Look, Lassiter, you are a conflict of interest. They broke into _your_ house, you are biased and I can't have you do something you'll regret." Damn, she knows me too well. That's what I get for working with her for all these years. She's almost as bad as O'Hara…

Speaking of O'Hara, "Does O'Hara know about these guys? She's still at the hospital with Spencer."

"I called her after I called you. She was trying to get Reynard to let Shawn leave early, but she was very insistent that he stay overnight." She was quiet for a moment, finally saying, "How did he lose his memory again?"

I sighed, already going over the story three times. I had told an officer named Paulson when he took my statement, I had told the doctor when she had asked what happened, and, of course, I had told O'Hara. This story was becoming tiresome. I was several seconds away from telling Vick to read my statement, when her phone rang.

"Vick," she answered pressing the phone to her ear. Her face paled as she stood up, turning her back on me. "What do you mean he's missing?" my stomach sank; I knew exactly who she was talking about. I didn't even stick around to listen to the rest of the conversation. I had an amnesiac, 'psychic' dumbass to find.

"Lassiter," I heard Karen call but I ignored her, letting the station doors close behind me.

_**PSYCH**_

I started with the area around the hospital, knowing a concussed Spencer probably wouldn't get far. Especially one who had no idea where he was, despite the fact that he grew up here. That sounded really weird, but it was the truth.

Once I was one-hundred percent sure he wasn't in the near vicinity of the hospital, I broadened my search. Twice O'Hara called me, but I let both calls go to voicemail. No doubt she would ask me to call her if, and when, I found him. I had already intended on calling her once I located Spencer, I wasn't so heartless I'd let her worry, and didn't need her to remind me to do what I was already going to do.

I found him two blocks from the hospital sitting on a bench outside a _Dunkin Donuts_. His eyes were locked on the sidewalk, a cup of coffee held between his hands. Despite being Spencer, he wasn't acting like Spencer. He reminded me of the people in the movie _Invasion of the Body Snatchers._ He's a carbon copy of Spencer, but not acting anything like him. Shawn Spencer was anything but still and silent, I should know having to put up with him for half a decade.

I cautiously walked up to him, feeling like a hunter attempting to corner an animal without spooking it. I stopped short of the bench, bracing myself if he should try and run, and said, "Spencer?"

At first, he didn't respond, the name taking a moment to click. When it did, he turned cautious eyes on me. I held my hands up, showing him I meant no harm, and continued, "Relax, I'm a friend." It felt weird, telling Spencer I was his friend. Yes, he's a colleague and yes, I did go to several lengths to get him back when he was taken by Longmore, but we're not exactly friends. We're hardly acquaintances, but he had no memory so I decided a little white lie was better than freaking him out more. "My name is Carlton Lassiter." I wasn't sure what kind of reaction I'd get if I told him I was a cop, let alone the head detective of the SBPD, so I kept that tiny tidbit to myself.

"You were that guy from earlier," he said slowly. He was quiet for a moment, studying me, and then he said, "So, we're friends?"

"Sure," I mumbled. That façade was going to be hard to keep up, but if it earned me his trust I will suck it up and live with it.

"You must be upset with me," he started in frustration, "not being able to remember your name. Some friend I am."

"Shawn…" It was hard to say Spencer's first name, his surname a jerk reaction when it came to him. "Shawn, don't worry about it. You have amnesia…"

"Yeah, I know. That blonde… Juliet?" he gave me a questioning look, his eyes burning with confirmation that he had gotten O'Hara's name right. I nodded once, both to verify his question and for him to continue. "She told me. She also told me I was her fiancé, but I don't remember…" he kneaded his forehead with his fist. Most likely because of the headache spiking through his head, Reynard probably didn't have time to give him anything for the pain.

"Hey," I said sitting on the edge of the bench. "You'll remember. Just give it time."

"Easy for you to say, Carlton, you actually have your memory." As strange as it was to call Spencer 'Shawn', to tell him I was his friend, to see him so quiet and still, to be living this night at all… it was completely surreal to hear him use my first name. He has called me nothing but Lassie to my face or, at least, variations of the name, for so long. I had always assumed he had forgotten what my first name was, or, in the very least, convinced himself that Lassie was my real name. I admit, neither one seemed beneath him; his maturity levels never exceeded the age of twelve. Twelve year olds seem to be able to convince themselves of anything. I have a brother, he's younger than me, he was twelve once. Of course, he actually grew up when he was supposed to. 'Peter Pan' Spencer, on the other hand, probably never will.

"Why'd you leave the hospital? A lot of people are worried about you." It was the longest I have gone without yelling at him or berating him or insulting him or him insulting me. We are never this civilized and I had mixed feelings about that. I kept expecting him to change in a matter of seconds, start acting like the old Spencer again.

"I couldn't sit there with Juliet. She kept giving me these hopeful looks, expecting me to miraculously remember her. I just couldn't… I mean, I know they're there, Reynard told me they were, but I can't reach them." It was the first time I had seen him so vulnerable. The one thing I will admit we have in common is the fact that we keep our emotions to ourselves around people. It's easier to face a body when emotionally detached. Sympathizing with the victims makes the investigation so much harder to do. Spencer always had a firm grasp on that, until now apparently.

I have never been the comforting type. I'm not the type of person who gives someone a hug, tells them 'it's going to be okay', and sends them on their merry way. No, I have always been the type to tell someone to suck it up, get back in the game, and do a little ass kicking if I had to. But I realized Spencer didn't need ass kicking right now, he needed someone who could sympathize with him, he needed someone who would be there for him… he needed Guster. Unfortunately, we couldn't get a hold of Guster. He was still out of cell range. And I had a feeling he didn't want to see O'Hara. And his father, someone who could probably handle this almost perfectly, was about as reachable as Guster. The only person he had was me, and I was about as helpful as a legless horse was to a cowboy... Not very helpful at all.

Before I could say anything remotely helpful, which probably wouldn't have been helpful at all, a loud shot rang out and Spencer's cup exploded.


	4. Chapter 4

**Still not mine…**

_**Psych**_

I jumped over the bench, pulling Spencer with me. We landed on the ground, the cement audibly knocking the air of the 'psychic.' I pulled my gun from its holster, clicking off the safety. I peeked over the bench's back, ducking as a bullet came close to hitting me. Thank God for the over abundance of advertisements in this city. The bench was depicting an ad for a nearby real-estate agency and thus helped block me and Spencer from being shot. Thank God for small favors and not having to lug his heavy ass around in light of him getting shot.

"What's going on?" Spencer asked pushing himself to his knees and wiping his hands on his jeans. There would be a large welt where his coffee splattered across his hand, but he was going to be okay-his other problem notwithstanding.

"I'm about ninety-six percent sure those two guys are trying to kill us," I barked back, firing two rounds in the general direction of the shooters.

"Why?" Spencer questioned looking at me as I settled my back against the bench again.

"Shawn, I will tell you, I promise, but right now I'm going to need you to trust me and not ask any questions. Can you do that?" I was half expecting him to say something like '_It's hard to trust someone whose hair isn't as awesome as mine' _or-at the very least-_"I don't remember anything or anyone and you expect me to trust you?"_

Instead he said, "Whatever you say, Carlton. Just don't get me killed." He fell silent, another bullet flying over our heads. It hit the building directly in front of us, loose brick showering down on us.

I made to get up on my knees, fire off in their direction again, when Spencer grabbed my arm and whispered, "They're behind that car." He pointed at a gray Sedan parked, against a curb, several yards from us. I had been firing a few feet from it, toward a large mailbox, and wanted to kick myself for not seeing it sooner. Especially when I caught the top of someone's head, blond hair sticking out.

"How did you…?" I let my voice trail off, deciding to figure it out later, and fired four shots toward the car. Three bounced off the hood, leaving instant dents in the metal, the forth came close to hitting the blond. And it was our momentary distraction.

"Come on," I said pushing myself to my feet. I grabbed Spencer's arm, hauling him up, also. I pushed him in front of me, telling him to run. He obliged, his shoes slapping against the pavement. It was weird, my phrase of the day apparently, that he was listening to me. If I learned anything about the 'psychic', in half a decade, it was that Shawn Spencer doesn't listen to anyone, except occasionally Guster. And I use 'occasionally' loosely. So loose, in fact, that if a bullet travelling 1120 miles a second were to whiz past it, it could very well blow away. That's how loose I used the word 'occasionally.'

I trekked quickly behind him, repeatedly glancing behind me to make sure those guys were still busy. An alleyway was up ahead, one that I hoped ended in an opening and not a brick wall. Hell, I'd even take a fence. Climbing had to be better than getting shot, right?

"Take the next right," I barked at Spencer and he turned the corner. A bullet tore past me, so much for a distraction, and I sped up. I flew around the corner and slammed smack dab into Spencer's back. He fell forward, throwing his hands out before his face could collide with the cement.

"What the hell," I barked pulling him to his feet and dragging him through the alley which, thankfully, opened up to another sidewalk.

"I…I was w…waiting for you," he replied, out of breath, holding his side. Apparently, he hadn't inherited his father's track star like endurance. I am still curious as to how that old man could outrun me, despite spending most of his time on a boat, and being nearly two decades older than me.

"Next time don't," I told him hustling him toward the exit. We burst out onto a new sidewalk, the gunmen most definitely behind us. I spotted the glowing hospital sign in the distance, a plan quickly formulating.

"Come on," I said pulling him toward the sign.

"No," he protested yanking out of my grasp. "I can't go back."

"Spen…Shawn, I need my car," I said trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice, "and in order to get that I need to head back to the hospital. Plus, if we stand here any longer we most definitely will be killed."

"Alright, let's go," he said after a moment's hesitation. I stole one last glance over my shoulder, seeing no one racing toward us, and began jogging toward the hospital, Spencer trailing me. We were closing in on the hospital-sixteen or seventeen feet give or take-when a black van squealed to a stop right against the curb.

"Shit," I whispered skidding to a halt. I made to turn around but froze when two guys came sprinting out of the alleyway we had left moments before.

"Please say you have a plan," Spencer said glancing back and forth at both the van and the men.

"I'm working on it," I said my original plan already forgotten.


	5. Chapter 5

**As much as I wish these characters were my creation, sadly they are not…**

_**Psych**_

I was sixty-six percent sure we were screwed. I know a great thing for a cop, let alone a head detective, to say. Despite the fact that the majority of my brain was on a downward spiral toward defeat, the remaining thirty-four percent had enough faith that I could come up with a plan. That and Spencer was depending on it, too.

I scanned the immediate area, my eyes taking in a few stores closed for the night and an older apartment building. The apartment had a fire escape, but I had not magically grown twelve feet, and we didn't have nearly enough time where I could boost Spencer up to lower it.

"Carlton," Spencer murmured, but I ignored him. It was a jerk reaction when it came to Shawn, and I was still looking for possible escape routes.

"Carlton," he said a little louder, tugging on my sleeve. The men were closing in on us, four guys-two very familiar. The unfamiliar guys came from the van, one carrying a bat. His red hair was pulled back, in a loose ponytail, at the base of his neck, his jeans ripped at the knees and his leather jacket cracked and worn. The other one, a squirrely, brunette, was, as far as I was knew, unarmed. He was wearing a plain, gray sweatshirt and a pair of sweats.

I turned to the familiar pair, both carrying their guns. One was tall, six-five give or take, his head shaved bald. He had a tattoo, across his bare dome, of a fly caught in a spider web. The other was my height, his hair blond. He was the one I had shot at earlier, the one I had sucker punched when he tried to take me down, and the one who looked the most pissed off. I really had to come up with a plan.

"Carlton," Spencer practically screamed.

"What," I snapped, barely throwing him a glance.

"That store is unlocked," he said pointing somewhere to my immediate left.

"What," I repeated with less bite, following his gesture. Sure enough, how I could miss it was beyond me, an old Mom and Pop store had yet to lock up, or forgot. We were a few feet from it, if we ran fast enough we could probably reach it before we were killed.

"Go," I said pushing him toward the door. I dug my hand into my inside coat pocket, extracting another gun. I fired both of my guns at either pair of men, all of them ducking to avoid the bullets, and used the distraction to race after Spencer. Halfway to the door, I heard a few **pops** echo through the air.

Two of the bullets slammed into a building and, again, I was showered with loose brick. The third bullet I lost track of until I felt a sharp pain enter my right side. It was a through and through, didn't hit anything vital as far as I knew, but was enough to slow us down. If I let it, which I most definitely was not about to do.

I finally reached the small convenient store, slamming the door and locking it. Spencer stood next to the counter, keeping his back to me, his hands raised.

"Spencer what the hell…" my voice trailed off when I realized he wasn't alone. An older woman stood a few feet from him, a shotgun aimed directly at his chest. Her hair was pulled back in a tight braid, her grey eyes shooting daggers at the unarmed 'psychic.'

"Like I told your buddy," she began still keeping her eyes locked on Spencer, "you try anything I won't hesitate to shoot you." I knew it was time to let Spencer in on my little secret.

"Ma'am," I started, my hand going for my pocket and sending another sharp pain through my side. Out of her peripheral she must have saw my movement because she cocked the shotgun.

"You heard me…"

"Ma'am, I'm a cop," I said quickly, two sets of eyes landing on me.

"Cop, eh?" she asked her gun lowering ever so slightly. "Do you have any proof?"

"Yeah, can I show you my badge?" I asked glancing back to see what those guys were doing. The sound of squealing tires rang through the streets, making me guess they either wanted to scare us or were attempting an escape before I called in back up.

She nodded and I reached into my pocket, holstering one of my guns but keeping the other held loosely in my hand. I pulled my badge out, freshly polished every single day, and flashed it to her. She pushed past Spencer, who was looking at me like I slapped him, and stopped short of me. She squinted at the badge, taking in the details like I was going to give her a fricking quiz on it. When she was satisfied that I wasn't an impersonator, she stepped back a few steps and laid the shotgun on the counter.

"Sorry about that," she said glancing at Spencer, who was still looking at me.

"It's fine," I said, even though it most definitely was not fine. If she wasn't an innocent bystander I would arrest her for pointing a gun at an officer and a memory less, dumb ass, 'psychic.' Yes, I know we broke into her establishment, while in the middle of a gun fight, but bringing another gun into the mix was no excuse.

I put my other gun away, becoming instantly aware of the blood darkening my shirt, something I knew was not good. I was also aware of the sound of sirens coming from a distance, someone having obviously called the police. I pulled my jacket closed trying to discreetly fasten the first two buttons.

I knew I was going to regret this, that this was against every protocol in the academy's book, but Spencer didn't want to go back to the hospital and-truth be told-I didn't either, so I turned to the woman and I said, "Can you do us a huge favor?"

She eyed me cautiously, obviously still wary of me despite proof that I wasn't a stark raving lunatic, as she said, "What?"

"Can we hide in the back of your store?"

"What?" she said just as Spencer said, "What?"

"Just let us hide out until the cops leave," I said knowing I sounded like a rogue cop, probably an outlaw who hadn't given up his badge. I just wanted to avoid a hospital as much as Spencer did. But I bet that woman wouldn't see it that way, she'd probably turn us in the moment…

"Okay, just don't touch anything," she said taking me by surprise. I gave her a questioning look, one that made her go red and say, "I may not have a license for this gun." Of course she had an ulterior motive. Everyone had their reasons to help others, even if most were just plain selfish.

She ushered us to the back just as a set of flashing lights stopped in front of her store. She closed the door on us, heading toward the front when a cop knocked. I heard her unlock the door and say, "Can I help you officer?"

"There was a call about some gunfire," McNabb's voice said making me wonder where O'Hara was. Just the thought of O'Hara made me realize I still had to call her. I wondered how many times she had tried to call while Spencer and I were trying to stay alive. Hopefully not many, I'd hate to hear the voicemails she left.

"Okay, ma'am. Let us know if those guys come back." the sound of the door being closed followed, the lock turning seconds later. I hadn't realized McNabb and the woman had had an entire conversation. I blamed it on the stress of the night, and getting shot, but the stress mostly. I refused to let something like a bullet wound get to me.

"When were you going to tell me you're a cop," Spencer's voice hit me, making me turn. He was sitting against the wall, knees drawn to his chest, avoiding my eyes.

"Spence…Shawn…" I started but cut off when the door opened and the old woman said, "Your cop buddies are gone."

"Thanks," I said turning to face her. She stood in the doorway, still giving me a cautious look. I waited for her to move, not above pushing her out of the way but still giving her a chance to step aside. Instead she asked, "You two in some kind of trouble?"

"That depends on if you move or not," I said knowing I sounded like a dick. But she wasn't moving and I really wanted to get out of there. Go somewhere where I could check over my wound, which was still bleeding. I could feel the hot liquid rolling down my side and back, knew my shirt was a goner, but didn't care as long as this woman moved.

"Look, I don't want to be harboring fugitives," she said slowly.

"And I don't want to fine your ass for the unlicensed weapon you have." She moved and I hurriedly left the room. Steps from the door I realized Spencer wasn't following me.

"Shawn." I turned to see him still against the wall. I took a few steps toward him, every movement pulling on my side. "Come on, Shawn." He just sat there, still avoiding my eyes. "Please, Shawn, can we go?"

He sighed but got to his feet. I turned back toward the door, jumping when I found the woman holding a set of keys out to me. "What are…?"

"There's an old station wagon outside, sitting around the corner. It'll probably get you farther than walking." I couldn't believe the lengths this lady was going to avoid getting caught with an unlicensed weapon. But hey, if it got us a car I was all for milking it up. Besides, my car was out and I knew I wasn't getting far with a bullet hole in my side.

"Thank you," I said, "and I promise to get it back to you." I may be milking it up, but I wasn't that much of an asshole that I'd keep her car. She'd get it back, perhaps with some blood on the seat, but it'd be in one piece.

I took the keys from her and headed to the door. Spencer was trailing me, still pissed that I had neglected to mention being a cop. I unlocked the door, checking both ways before heading outside. I lead the unusually quiet 'psychic' down the sidewalk and around the corner. I tried to ignore the frequent spikes of pain I felt, but it was like trying to ignore a gun that keeps jamming. It also didn't help that everything around me began wavering. Great, that was all I needed, to pass out from blood loss.

"Carlton," Spencer's voice caused me to stop. I turned to see what he wanted, noticing that I had overshot the station wagon. I headed toward the car, sliding into the driver seat. Spencer hesitated at the passenger doorway, his hand on the handle, but ended up getting in after a few seconds.

I started the car once he closed the door, throwing it into gear. The damn thing was built in the fricking Brady Bunch era, meaning it didn't go very fast. It would be a drag if we had to outrun another car (fingers crossed I did not just jinx us).

"So a cop," Spencer started his eyes watching the scenery from the window.

"Yes, I'm a cop," I replied wearily, stopping at a red light. Now that I was sitting down things had settled down some but not by a lot. I just had to hold on until we stopped, and I knew I could do that. I had to do that.

I had first decided to head back to Psych, but thought against it after a few seconds. Memory or not, I'm sure Spencer would have ended up there if I hadn't found him. My second choice was my place, but it was probably crawling with police cruisers. There was no way I'd go to O'Hara's and Spencer's place, she'd show up and there'd be problems I did not want to deal with. Then inspiration hit me, I knew the perfect place. I just had to hold on a little while longer.

"Were you ever going to tell me?" Spencer asked trying to keep his voice even but I could still hear the barely controlled anger. Truthfully, I was hoping he'd remember before I had to tell him, but I knew I couldn't tell him that. So, I said, "Yes, I was planning on telling you. After we got out of _that_ situation."

"Speaking of _that_ situation," he started and I knew what was coming next. I had promised him I'd tell him everything once we escaped, and I had intended to, just much later. Right now I was more preoccupied with getting somewhere safe and staying conscious. But what the hell, right, talking was probably my best chance of achieving my second goal.

"Um, earlier tonight… or I guess it was last night." One look at my watch confirmed my suspicions. It was four in the morning; I had officially been up for forty-eight hours-save for the quick nap I took at Spencer's office. "Two men broke into my house. I attempted to apprehend them, but one shined his flashlight into my face while the other tackled me."

"So, two of those guys were the same guys who attacked you," Spencer said meeting my eyes.

"Yeah, that's exactly who they were. The bald man was also the one who shot at you…"

"Is that like my song of the day?" he asked bitterly.

"Our song, apparently," I muttered getting a small smile from him. I couldn't believe I was encouraging a joke made by Shawn Spencer. I was definitely blaming the bullet wound that time.

"So, he shot at me…" he trailed off, allowing me to continue.

"You dropped to avoid getting hit by the bullet, hit your head on the sidewalk, now you have no memory." I turned down a familiar street, knowing I was close to my destination. Good timing, too, because I was pretty sure-about eight-seven percent-I was about to pass out at the wheel.

"So, I did this to myself?"

"Partially," I replied shrugging my shoulders.

Finally we made it, Henry's beach house never looking so welcoming. I turned the car off, glancing over at Spencer. His curiously cautious face was wavering in and out of focus, letting me know that I had to really get inside.

"What is this place," Spencer asked his voice sounding like it was coming from a badly tuned radio.

"You're dad's," I replied opening the door. I stared at the steering wheel, trying to muster up the strength to get out.

"M…my dad's? Is…is he…?"

"He's on a fishing trip. We've been trying to get a hold of him. Him and your friend Guster."

"Guster?"

"Burton Guster, you've known him since you were born or something..."

"And where's he?"

"A retreat or something. Look, can we get inside?"

"Sure." He was a little too eager to enter his father's abode. I recall normally having to drag him, kicking and screaming, inside that house. Unless he needed something. I know he uses his dad's help for some of his cases. I would, too, if I had a father like Henry. He was a good cop, very well respected, and he has earned my respect. And with me, that is hard to do. I'm not mean, I just find most people to be… immature children. Spencer is number one on that list.

Spencer was already halfway up the steps when he realized I hadn't followed him. I was still sitting behind the wheel of the car, trying to convince myself to get out.

"Carlton?" he called starting toward me.

"I'm coming," I said pulling my legs out first. The sudden movement pulled on my side, making me bite the inside of my cheek. That hadn't happened before, meaning it was getting worse. I just had to make it inside the house, get a first-aid kit, and I'd be right as rain. Not that rain was right; rain was annoying in my opinion. Very, very annoying.

I grabbed the door, pulling myself out of the car. The world started immediately tilting, reminding me of a see-saw. Or a catapult if Ronnie Williams had anything to say about it. Sent me flying ten feet in the air, only to crash into the asphalt and break my arm. Asshole.

"Hey, Carlton, are you okay?" I had a feeling Spencer was closer than he sounded, but I couldn't be one-hundred percent sure. All that I knew was that if I were to let go of the door I was most definitely going to land on my face. So, I just had to keep a hold…

My hand slipped, making me fall forward. Before I collided with the ground I felt two arms grab me around the chest. The world was rapidly dimming, my limbs felt as if they had been replaced with lead. I was falling fast, leaving Spencer in a world he knew nothing about. Great now I felt guilty, but before I could dwell on it everything went dark as I sank into unwanted unconsciousness.


	6. Chapter 6

**I OWN NOTHING…**

_**Psych**_

When I was fourteen I had to baby-sit my brother, Danny, for the night. My mother had to work a double shift, using the only cheap baby-sitter she had: me. And when I say cheap, I mean free. She never paid me, ever. If I were to add up the amount of hours I had to watch Danny, who was seven years younger than me and into the freaking Ninja Turtles until the age of fifteen, she would owe me over thirteen-hundred dollars. But that has nothing to do with what I was talking about.

While watching Danny, he started whining about wanting soup. "Carlton, Carlton, can you make me soup? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease?" I hated when he drew out the 'e's' in please, his voice would get high and give me a headache. Spencer does that sometimes, too, and I am forced to remember Danny before puberty. Of course, Spencer is post-pubescent so his voice doesn't get quite as high, but still.

So, I get a footstool to get up in the cupboards because I couldn't reach. I didn't hit my growth spurt until the summer I turned fifteen. While digging around, I heard Danny running around the living room singing the Ninja Turtles theme song at the top of his lungs. Sometime during the song, he must have stepped on the dog's tail, because Max gave a high pitched yelp and came tearing into the kitchen. He hit the stool I had been standing on, toppling both me and the stool to the ground. As I crashed down, I smacked my head onto the edge of the counter, and knocked myself out. I had left a defenseless child unattended all because of something out of my control. And that's how it felt passing out in front of Spencer.

Yes, Danny was seven at the time and Spencer is a grown man, but he was still trapped in a world he didn't know and for some unknown reason he trusted me. And now I was unconscious. Or I had been because I was slowly coming to.

The first thing I was aware of was the soft cushions under me. I knew for a fact that I had not been anywhere near soft cushions when I collapsed. Ugh, just using that word makes me sound weak. I hate weakness; it's not even a word in my vocabulary. Nope, not even close.

I tried to move, but moving brought a sharp pain to my side making me hiss in pain. Hiss in pain! I don't hiss in pain, I keep it locked up until such time that I can allow it to escape. Which was never until now apparently.

"Carton, relax," a familiar voice said grabbing my shoulder when I tried to move again. I opened my eyes, a blurry face looking down at me. It took a few seconds, but Spencer finally came into focus. He had a look of, honest to God, worry across his face.

"W…what happened?" I said quietly. I refuse to say 'in a weak voice.' I refuse to result to such nastiness when referring to my health. I was not, nor have I ever been, weak. Never, ever, ever, ever…

"Well, you were shot," Spencer replied sitting back on his heels. "I was contemplating calling for an ambulance, hospital be damned, but you kept whispering 'no hospitals, no hospitals, Spencer.' So, I didn't call anyone.

"I did, however, keep hearing this voice in my head. It was a gruff voice, one trying to get my attention. It kept saying, 'Shawn, pay attention. First-aid is easy.' Then it went on for a few more seconds, coaching me or something. I was thinking it was a memory…" Spencer kept talking, apparently memory or no he still babbles in a situation too stressful even for his sense of humor. I had a feeling that was his dad's voice, Henry having once mentioned that he taught his son a few things when he was younger. He said something about teaching him to kick a taillight from a car, so why wouldn't he teach his son first-aid, too. It's just too bad Spencer could barely remember his coaching… or did he? I figured I should tune back into his constant badgering.

"…managed to bandage off both sides of the wound. I found a first-aid kit in the hall closest. My dad must think the world's going to end or something, he keeps the thing very well stocked. I'm not sure if your shirt and overcoat can be saved, they were covered in blood." I shivered, realizing for the first time that I was, in fact, shirtless. Wow I was totally not perceptive today.

"How did we get in here?" I asked glancing around Henry's living room.

"I had a set of keys in my pocket. I kept trying key after key until the last one unlocked the door. Do you know how hard that is while lugging an unconscious man around? You're heavy, by the way." Despite his attempt at joking, Spencer was starting to get mad. "Why the hell didn't you tell me you were shot? I may not know much, but I wouldn't have made such a big deal about going back to the hospital…"

"No, hospitals, Spencer," I ground out through gritted teeth, pushing myself into a sitting position regardless of the pain. Spencer tried to push me back, but I swatted his hand away. I didn't need his help when he was flailing around like a jackass, I didn't need it now.

I was eating my words moments later when I tried to get off the couch, only to end up landing back against the cushions. Spencer was on his feet, practically yelling, "Carlton, you're going to start gushing blood again. Stop trying to move."

"I would Spencer, but we have to get out of here. Now." He was making me mad, and I hoped my voice was a growl. When Spencer's face softened I realized it probably sounded… I feel dirty just thinking it… whiney. There I said. I degraded myself by admitting I whined. Carlton Lassiter doesn't whine, nope. No Lassiter has whined since my brother was nine. But I just did… Damn it.

"Carlton, everyone whines once in their lives." Oh my frigging God, I said all that out loud. I SAID ALL OF THAT OUT LOUD! You've got to be fricking kidding me. And now I'm bitching… Lassiters don't bitch, either. I am so blaming the bullet wound for my sudden shift in character.

"You have a brother," Spencer asked no doubt trying to distract me from thoughts of leaving. I know why he was doing it, there was no doubt I would probably start bleeding if I strained myself, and I didn't blame him. BUT, there were a few gun totting men chasing us, quite possibly looking for us right this moment, and sticking to one spot was like handing ourselves over with a bow on top.

"Are you okay?" Spencer asked when I failed to answer his question. He sounded worried, something I wasn't used to. As I've said before, Spencer is good at hiding his emotions. Normally, he'd sprout jokes backwards and forwards, trying to lighten the crappy mood. I still regret asking him about his so called 'process' when he hired himself to help me when Drimmer framed me for murder (I hope the asshole rots in jail with his bullet wound I inflicted. Scar or not I hope it still causes him pain every time he sees it. You don't cross Carlton Lassiter and get away with it.)

"_Do you really wanna know my process?"_ _he had asked._

_ "Absolutely," I replied knowing I'd regret it._

_ "It usually starts with a 'Holla' and ends with a creamsicle," he had replied. Only to have Guster say, "And if there's time in between, _Thunder Cats_, ho-oh."_

"Danny," I said quietly getting Spencer's attention, who had been halfway up ready to, no doubt, get the phone. Being quiet for too long can, I was probably starting to scare him.

"What?" he asked lowering himself to a kneeling position again.

"My brother's name is Danny," I replied. I had told no one about Danny, he wasn't someone I generally liked to talk about. He was the polar opposite of me, almost as bad as Spencer in some ways-sometimes worse. I looked through Spencer's file; I know how much of a trouble maker he was. I know how many jobs he has had since the age of eighteen. Danny's about the same way, except he's got a longer criminal record and a lot longer job history. Plus he has fifteen unpaid parking tickets in Mexico. I would turn him in, but he's my brother and I wouldn't do that (plus I have no frigging clue where he is). And thinking about it, I just realized Danny isn't as grown up as I thought; wishful thinking on my part, perhaps. Besides I haven't seen him in ten years. He could have grown up some since then.

"How far apart are you and Danny?" he asked curiously. No one has ever been curious about my past before, except maybe Victoria and O'Hara, but I had avoided their questions as much as I could. I wasn't a huge fan of sharing 'Fun Facts' about me. My past was just that, my past, and would remain that way. Victoria would always say, "_Carlton, what happens if our children want to know what you were like as a little boy? What are you going to tell them?"_ to which I would always reply, _"I'll tell them I was a kid, I did kid things, and leave it at that."_ Of course, that was during the early years of our marriage, the only good years. She knew what she was getting into when she married a cop, as did Henry's wife, but women seemed to think they can change a man. Make them quit their dangerous job and stay home all day with them. Well, guess what sweethearts, you can't.

But a part of me will always wonder what would have happened if I spent more time with her, less time at the precinct. Would we still be together? Would we be happy? Would we have 2.5 kids, be living in a two story house on the outskirts of Santa Barbara? I know, I know questions I should have asked myself when our marriage started going down the shithole it ending in, but what can I do about it now? The papers were signed. She was a free agent, as was I, and I hope Dr. Richard S. Bradbury made her happy. Pompous prick.

"We're seven years apart," I finally answered Spencer's question, a few moments too late. I had to get my head back in the game, stop it from wandering off into territory I wasn't too fond of trekking. Touchy feely emotions weren't my strong point, hell they weren't even a point at all. They were a dulled tip I kept stabbing into the ground until they broke all together. Unhealthy, yes, but it was how I dealt with things.

"Are you two close?" Spencer pressed letting his hands ghost over my wound, making sure it wasn't bleeding again. I was about to tell him I could do that myself when I heard the door in the kitchen squeak. I froze, putting a finger to my lips when Spencer made to open his mouth. He had paled, looking scared out of his mind.

Adrenaline racing through my veins, I was able to stand without landing on my ass again. Spencer was hovering at my side, ready to catch me if I should fall. It was embarrassing, sure, but also reassuring. Falling hurt, injured or not, and to have someone there to catch me was a-okay by me. But I will never admit it out loud.

I crept toward the kitchen, stopping just short with my back against the wall. Spencer was standing next to me, his eyes locked on me waiting for further instructions. I took a deep breath, readied myself for a fight, and push myself from the wall. I turned quickly into the kitchen, gun at the ready, only to have a flashlight shined in my face, again.


	7. Chapter 7

**I still own nothing…**

_**Psych**_

"Opps, sorry," a familiar voice said and the flashlight snapped off. I groped for the light switch, blinking colorful bulbs from my eyes, and watched as O'Hara came into view. She stashed her gun into her holster, lowering her flashlight to her side.

"O'Hara, what the hell are you doing here?" I asked setting my gun on the counter and quickly moving into the shadows, hoping she didn't catch sight of my bandaged side.

"I had a feeling, memory or not, Shawn would end up here," O'Hara replied crossing the room. She stopped just short of me, her eyes falling on someone behind me. "Looks like I was right?" her eyes fell back on me as she said, "Where's your shirt?"

My shirt…" I glanced down, bare, white chest looking back at me. I really needed to get my head back in the game. "My shirt is…"

"He spilt something on it," Spencer said quickly, pressing a colorful Hawaiian shirt into my hands. I can guarantee I would never wear anything quite so… extravagant in my life. I wondered how long Spencer had this waiting for me, knowing damn well it was one of Henry's, but didn't press the point as I pulled the shirt on. It wasn't an ideal fit, but it would do.

"What the hell are you two doing here?" Juliet asked deciding to let our odd behavior go. She knew Spencer had an excuse, but, as far as she knew, I didn't. I just had to keep her thinking that way until such time that I could share my injuries with her; hopefully, after those dipshits were apprehended and I had my house back. God I missed my house, Henry's just didn't smell right.

"Hiding out," I replied a few seconds too late. I could be a good liar, on a rare occasion, but I knew she wasn't buying it this time. She gave me a stern look, but before she could say anything Spencer cut her off, "I didn't want to go back to the hospital. Carlton is helping me hide out."

I couldn't believe he was lying for me. Shawn Spencer would rat out Guster if it got him into less trouble with Vick. The only person he would really lie for was standing in front of me, but he wasn't aware of that now.

"Carlton?" Juliet eyed me cautiously. As I said before, Spencer had an excuse to be acting out of character. I did, too, but O'Hara didn't know that. At least I didn't think she did. Man, my head was really starting to ache and it was barely six o'clock.

I turned to Spencer, hoping he would be more help, but froze when I noticed how tired he looked. I remembered Reynard telling us his energy levels would be all over the place, and I bet running from gun totting jackasses didn't help either, so I did the only thing I could think of.

"Spence… Shawn, why don't you go sit down? I want to talk to O… Juliet for a moment."

"What about…" he let his voice trail off, his eyes landing on my now concealed, bandaged side, indicating what he meant to say. I waved off his concern, getting an eye roll from him. He sighed after a few seconds, and wandered into the living room. I made sure he was seated on the couch before I beckoned O'Hara to go outside.

Once her back was turned, I pulled Henry's shirt closed and fastened the buttons. I followed her to the porch, closing the door a crack. She turned to me, giving me a look that clearly screamed '_Explain, now.'_

"I found him," I said quietly hoping to break the tense moment. I usually did quite well in tense situations, but now was probably not the time to be yelled at. I couldn't afford to yell back and reopen wounds that shouldn't be opened. I may be able to conceal blood with a dark blue coat, but I couldn't hide blood from a bright green Hawaiian shirt. No matter how hard I tried.

"Why didn't you call me," she hissed a hurt expression ghosting across her face before being concealed once more. I had no clue how I was going to explain this away, but I wasn't going to not try.

"We were shot at," I replied before I could stop myself. _Great job, Carlton, just one step closer to admitting you have another, unwanted hole in your body._

"What?" she yelped clasping a hand over her mouth seconds later.

"I found Spencer sitting outside a Dunkin Donuts, tried to talk him into going back to the hospital, but was interrupted by gun fire." And I told her. Another 'exciting' story I had to share with my partner. Yes, I did leave a few things out. One, the most obvious, was Mr. Bullet Hole and two was the pure fact that Spencer got us out of the situation. He's always the hero in the story; I think it should be me this time. I deserve it anyway.

"And you couldn't have called after you escaped," she questioned once I finished, backing me into a corner. Spencer and I escaped at four; it was now six-ten. There was a two hour stretch of time I could not account for. Well, I could, but I chose not to. Of course, I had no way to really weasel my way out of that conversation without confessing to my injury. This was going to suck out loud.

"Well, you see…" I dug my phone from my pocket, checking the battery. I was either very lucky or someone was watching out for me today, because the dead battery symbol shining back at me was more than I could ask for. A rush of relief ran through me, a readymade excuse sitting in my hands. "My phone was dead," I said sending a silent 'thank you' just in case anyone was listening.

"Dead?"

"Yes, dead." I showed her the screen, letting her see the symbol, too. "And Spencer's phone was still at the hospital." I took a stab at it, not really sure where Spencer left his phone. It could be sitting at the bottom of a fish tank for all I knew. I had no clue what that nuisance did with his things.

"I have it," she said showing me the I-Phone, green Psych covering practically winking back at me. It was what Spencer was, Psych, and everything to do with it always put me in a sour mood. Now wasn't any different, despite the situation.

"Doesn't Henry have a phone?" O'Hara questioned after a few seconds. I went to open my mouth, give her some other excuse, but I started to feel dizzy and had to grab the doorknob to keep myself up. "Carlton?" she was alarmed, and I didn't blame her. If she were acting as I were, looking-most definitely-like she were going to pass out, I would do everything in my power to figure out what was wrong.

"I'm fine," I said breathing through my nose.

"The hell you are," she said as she grabbed my arm and guided me to a chair. "I knew you were paler than normal."

"I'm not that pale," I defended myself. My skin wasn't pale, not really. A little pasty, but pale… No. I mean, sure I am whiter than most California residents, but I wasn't paper white. I mean… My God, I'd better stop before I start sounding like a girl.

"Carlton, what's wrong?" she asked curiously, concern flooding her eyes. "Are you sick? Did the doctor miss something when she checked you over? Talk to me."

I leaned forward, putting my head between my knees, in hopes of pacifying the dizziness. That lasted about six seconds, the position pushing on my hurt side. I sat up again, taking in the worried look still planted on O'Hara's face.

I leaned my head back, glancing up at the ceiling just to avoid that look. I couldn't tell her, but I knew I had to. Especially when she said, "Oh God, Carlton, you're bleeding." I hadn't realized, when I was trying to prevent a face plant, I had reopened my wounds. Great, now I'm going to have to buy a new, ugly ass shirt for Spencer Sr. and I may have to take a trip to the hospital. Can this day get any worse?

"Carlton," a new voice said, Spencer appearing around the corner looking frantic. "I saw a black van drive by a few moments ago." Just as he said the words, the van squealed around the corner going at speeds that broke several traffic laws. Of course things could get worse. I really have to learn to keep my questions to myself.


	8. Chapter 8

**Still don't own them…**

_**Psych**_

I stood up, ignoring the spike of pain that jolted my side and the dizziness that washed through me. I headed toward the doorway to Henry's back porch, the door open and hitting me with the cool, early morning breeze of the Santa Barbara fall and revealing that stupid van. I closed it, heading toward the window. I peered through the blinds, watching the van continue on its way. As grateful as I was for these lucky breaks, I couldn't help but wonder when my luck was going to take a turn. There was only so much good stuff that could happen before the bad caught up.

"Okay, it's gone," I whispered heading inside the house. O'Hara was steps behind me, I could feel her eyes boring into me, as she said, "You were shot, weren't you?"

"O'Hara," I started but stopped as another wave of dizziness hit me, causing me legs to nearly buckle and me to grab the nearest counter.

"Carlton," two voices echoed through my head, two sets of hands grabbed me and guided me to the kitchen table. Once sitting, I laid my head on the hardwood surface begging the dizziness to pass. If I was down I couldn't help either one, and that wasn't an option at all. It wasn't even close to an option, not even in the ball park. Not even the gum that sat outside the ballpark, waiting for unsuspecting… Oh God, Spencer is in my head now.

"Carlton, we have to get you to a hospital," O'Hara said, her voice pulling me back to reality.

"No," I snapped raising my head and trying to push myself to my feet.

"Carlton, I agree with Juliet," Spencer said pushing me effortlessly back into the chair. "I really don't want you bleeding to death. Plus," the next words I knew Spencer didn't want to utter, but he pressed on anyway, "a ton of your cop buddies may be more helpful than just us."

And that was how I ended up sitting in the backseat of O'Hara's Bug, my head leaning against the window, watching the scenery fly by. Spencer's words, his sacrifice, were mostly what convinced me to get help. I knew he didn't want to go back to the hospital. I knew he didn't want to be surrounded by people who would constantly reassure him that it was normal to have no memory after the ordeal he went through, and that it would come back in its own time. It was probably going to be too much to bear, but he was doing it for me. The lengths he would go, even without a memory, to help someone, even a person who's not his biggest fan, astound me sometimes.

"Carlton, we're almost there," O'Hara said from the front seat. Her voice was quiet, keeping her from waking Spencer, who had fell asleep almost as soon as her car took off. He looked younger in sleep, of course if you notice everyone does, less burdened. Plus, it kept him quiet. Which is always a plus when dealing with Shawn Spencer. That was very uncalled for, I know, but also true.

"I see that, O'Hara," I replied my foot nudging the bag Spencer had packed. It was a few of Henry's old clothes-a pair of jeans (something I haven't worn since my college years), an old SBPD sweatshirt, and a pair of Henry's sneakers (again, something I haven't worn in a while). I guess it was better than running around in bloody clothes or the lime green Hawaiian shirt I was still wearing, also covered in blood.

"If you hadn't of started bleeding in front of me, would you have told me about the wound?" her blue eyes caught mine in the rearview mirror. I could have easily lied, told her 'yes,' but there was no point. I had a feeling she would have seen right through it anyway, so I said, "No, O'Hara, I probably wouldn't have told you. Not right away, at least."

"Not right away, huh? When then, Carlton? After you bled to death? Huh? Huh? When I had to go down to the morgue to ID your body? Oh, wait, I forget, the medical examiner knows you. Meaning he would just call Vick who would, in turn, call me! How do you think I would have felt, Carlton, if you or Shawn were to have died? How would Gus or Henry feel if Shawn had died? Did you even think about that?" I was pretty sure O'Hara had no idea she was screaming at me, her final few sentences echoing through the car and causing Spencer to jerk awake.

"O'Hara," I spoke over her, trying to get her to calm down. "You can yell at me later. Just watch the road, now." And she did, knuckles whitening on the steering wheel and body language clearly screaming 'Leave me alone or I will shoot you.'

Spencer glanced back at me, a small shake of his head telling me exactly what he thought. He agreed with O'Hara, I should have said something earlier, should have gotten help sooner. Didn't they see that I was trying to keep Spencer alive? That if it wasn't for me the memory less dumbass wouldn't even be sitting up front.

Speaking of Spencer, he suddenly bowed forward, his face in his hands. I pushed myself up, gently resting a hand on his shoulder. "Spencer," I said quietly.

"Who's Abigail?" he asked without looking up. The look that crossed O'Hara's face was quick, but I definitely caught it. It was pure jealously, simple as that. She didn't have a problem with Shawn's ex per se, but I knew she had a problem with the fact that Spencer had originally chosen Abigail over her… What? I can notice things, too.

"She's your ex-girlfriend," O'Hara said trying to sound nonchalant. It almost worked, if she didn't sniff afterward. "You two dated for about a year, but ended up breaking up."

"I…I stood her up for our first date," he continued still keeping his face hidden. "We…we met back up at our… thirteen year reunion?" Ah, the reunion I remember fondly, despite never going to that school. My date ended up handcuffed and sent to jail. I hated her anyway.

"Yeah, that's her." Juliet had barely withheld disdain in her voice. She was getting sick of the Abigail talk and I could kind of see why. Out of all the things Spencer could remember first-his dad, Guster, his mother, hell even the time he was shot and kidnapped-he remembers an ex-girlfriend, and not just any ex, but O'Hara's competition for so long. Man, women can be so petty sometimes. So, says the guy who wants to string his ex-wife's new boyfriend up by his balls and dangle him over a cage of hungry lions. I guess everyone is petty in their own way.

Spencer caught the disdain, too, because he fell silent and looked up. He tried to catch O'Hara's eye, but to no avail. Giving up, he looked out the window and we continued to drive to the hospital in silence.

_**PSYCH**_

"You're lucky, Detective Lassiter," Reynard said as she stitched up my wound. "This could have been a lot worse."

"Yeah, well, that's me. Mr. Lucky," I grumbled trying hard not to wince. Despite the anesthetic she laced the wound with, it still hurt when she continued to pull on it.

I sat on a gurney, the curtain drawn to give me privacy, waiting for the doctor to finish up my stitches. O'Hara and Spencer, after putting his foot down over being admitted-_"I don't feel like being studied for the next twelve hours, thank you, so please don't take this the wrong way, but fuck off and leave me alone"_, were down in the cafeteria waiting for me to get moved to a room. I was really starting to regret agreeing to the damn hospital visit.

"Detective Lassiter," a new voice said making me move from 'really' into 'definitely' territory. Vick yanked the curtain aside, stopping short of me. It was hospital policy, despite my pleading, to call the cops when dealing with a gunshot wound. And of course, Karen would elect herself to take the call.

"Karen," I said meeting her eyes.

"Please, Chief, save any telling offs until he's not at risk of pulling his sutures," Reynard cut in, making the red head my number one favorite person.

"That I can't promise, Dr. Reynard," Karen said in a deadly calm voice. It was boiling beneath the surface, the lecture. I felt like a teenager who had gotten in trouble by his parent. I was half expecting her to ground me for a week, take away my Nintendo or whatever kids played with these days.

"Well, then I'm going to have to ask you to leave. If you can't be civilized then I don't want you around my patient." I could have sworn Karen's hand inched toward her gun when Reynard said that, but I could be wrong.

"Fine," Karen sighed, backing away from us. "I'll just go check on Mr. Spencer. Where is he?"

"Cafeteria," Reynard said stiffly, obviously still not over the telling off he gave her.

"Thanks." Vick nodded and left us be. I could hear her heels clicking down the hallway until they disappeared around the corner.

"I probably prolonged the screaming for a few hours," Reynard said flashing me a small smile. I heard a faint snap, telling me I was done being stitched like a ragdoll. She smeared anti-bacterial cream on a new piece of gauze and placed it over my wound. It was cold, making me shiver slightly, but I ignored it.

"You are done," she said once my side was taped. "I'll just go see if that room's ready." She walked away, her sneakered feet almost soundless on the linoleum floor.

I let my eyes wander around the small cubical, catching sight of the plastic bag O'Hara left sitting in a purple chair in the corner. I could easily change my clothes and leave, Reynard never needed to be the wiser, but I thought better of it. Spencer was right, a band of police officers would make catching those assholes easier than just Spencer and me. And O'Hara, too, I guess.

The lights overhead flickered, catching my attention. I didn't recall the lights ever doing that before, but I passed it off as a maintenance thing. Maybe someone was working on another light and hit the wrong wire. No biggie…

I barely thought those last two words when the power blinked off, the generator kicking on seconds later. Mostly used to keep the important machines running, the hallway was partially dark. Save for the floodlights that snapped on.

Curiosity getting the better of me, I slid off the gurney and peaked outside. Nurses and doctors were racing back and forth, a few carrying radios, trying to figure out what was going on. I had a vague notion, but I had to be sure. Pulling myself back into the cubical, I raced to the purple chair and took out the clean clothes Spencer packed for me.

I quickly changed, noting that Henry's clothes were a tad smaller than my own, and raced out into the hallway. While running toward the stairs, I nearly tripped over the shoelaces I had neglected to tie. Regardless of his clothes being small on me, his shoes weren't. My feet nearly slipped out of them a couple times, making me almost turn around and get mine. But there was no time; I had to make sure my hunch wasn't right.

I can honestly say adrenaline was the only thing helping me run as fast as I was going. Without it, I would definitely be walking as slow as molasses down these stairs. Adrenaline aside, I was quickly becoming dizzy and tired. It wasn't even four flights, I shouldn't be tired, but I was. It was complete bullshit.

I heard a scream, making me speed up. I burst through the basement doorway, racing past the morgue and a supply closet to reach the cafeteria. A gunshot rang out, a second scream, and I was sprinting now. I just made it to the door when I heard a window smash and a familiar voice exclaim, "Juliet!"

I pushed the door open, nearly tripping over a body. I glanced down, my heart sputtering. Karen wasn't moving, blood pouring from a chest wound. Before I could kneel and see how hurt she was, see if she was even alive, I heard another familiar voice scream, "CARLTON!"

My head automatically followed the voice, my heart stopping in mid-beat. Juliet was being carried out by the tattooed man. She was beating his back with her fists, her legs kicking uselessly. I had enough time to see his spider tattoo disappear around the corner before Spencer called, "We need to go after her."

I was torn. Juliet was my partner, my friend; I couldn't let her get taken. But Vick was also my friend, my superior, and seriously hurt. She could be… No, I couldn't think it, couldn't even write it. I had no idea what to do.


	9. Chapter 9

**Not mine…**

_**Psych**_

"CARLTON," Spencer screamed at me. "He's taking…! We can't let him…!"

"Spencer, go get help," I snapped at him, ignoring his screams for a moment, grabbing two handfuls of napkins from a dispenser on a nearby table and dropping to my knees next to Karen. I pressed my fingertips to her throat, feeling a weak, but definitely there, pulse. Quickly, with shaking hands, I pressed the napkins to her chest hoping to staunch the bleeding. Unfortunately, the napkins did nothing more than what they were designed to do: soak up crap.

"It's Juliet…" Spencer tried once more, but gave up when he finally noticed Karen lying on the ground, covered in blood.

"Shawn, I really need you to get help," I practically growled reaching blindly for a few more napkins. A shirt was pressed into my hands, Spencer gone seconds later. I threw the bloody napkins across the room, bunching up Spencer's shirt and pressing it to Karen's wound.

"Here," an unfamiliar, male voice said and someone crouched next to me. The cafeteria worker lifted Karen's head and placed his apron underneath it. "Make her more comfortable."

"Thanks," I murmured just as the lights flicked back on. I barely registered the florescent bulbs overhead, just concentrated on keeping Karen alive. Making sure she didn't bleed to death and that she was comfortable. That was all that mattered.

Reynard, a male doctor, a nurse, and a couple orderlies came rushing toward me a few moments later. The male doctor, who I was sure was named Parker, shunted me and the cafeteria worker to the side, tossing Spencer's ruined shirt into the corner next to the bloody napkins. He started taking her vitals, calling out orders that I wasn't even listening to. Pretty soon Karen was loaded onto a gurney the orderlies had brought, one I hadn't noticed, and wheeled out of the cafeteria.

My hands were shaking harder, my eyes unable to look away from the bloodstained floor. I couldn't believe what just happened. I mean I dealt with death every single day, it was part of my job, and even had a few colleagues get hurt on the job, too. But this was Karen. She was one of my closest friends, her and O'Hara, and now she could die. And who knew where O'Hara was? Who knew what was happening to her? It had barely been ten minutes, they couldn't have gotten far, yet I couldn't move to save my life-let alone her's.

"Carlton," a familiar voice said and I felt a hand on my arm. "Carlton, please sit down." I was pushed into a chair. A pair of hands rested gently on my shoulders and a voice kept saying, "Breathe, just breathe, Carlton. She'll be okay. Just breathe."

I wasn't aware I was breathing irregularly until I started concentrating on the voice. I followed its instructions, my air intake beginning to come back down to a normal level. Once I was under control, I stole a glance behind me to see who it was. And of course, it had to be the last person I expected, yet still had a suspicion he would be behind it.

"Are you okay," Spencer asked letting my shoulders go and walking around to face me. He crouched down to meet my eyes, blocking my view of the bloody linoleum floor. I know why he did it, and I appreciated it, but I didn't need someone to protect me. I was frigging Carlton Lassiter for God sakes. I did the protecting, not some nuisance who may or may not be psychic.

"I'm fine, Spencer," I snapped getting to my feet and knocking him over. I started pacing, deliberately keeping my eyes from straying to the bloody floor, wringing my bloody hands. I had to find O'Hara, but I also had to make sure Karen was okay. Plus, I guess I was technically the 'chief' until further notice, so I was probably going to get hounded by several people asking me what they should do. And, oh yeah, I had to charge my fricking phone. But first I had to get cleaned up. I couldn't go running around covered in…

Spencer's childish ringtone pulled me from my thoughts. I stopped mid-pace, glancing over at him. He looked around for a second, his nearly blank slate memory not quite pinpointing the ringing. When he caught my eye, seeing me wearing what I hoped was a very irritated look-I really had no time for Spencer trying to explain to Guster why he couldn't remember him-he realized the ringtone was coming from his phone.

He pulled the I-Phone from his pocket, O'Hara obviously giving it to him sometime in the past few hours-and looked at the screen. He handed it to me, an excited look on his face. "It's Juliet. Maybe she managed to get away."

I took the phone from him, answering it and pressing it to my ear. "Hello?"

"Detective Lassiter, not the person I was expecting but you'll do." The voice was familiar, so very, very, very familiar. I could easily see him and I really wished he was standing in front of me so I could empty an entire clip into him; if I had my gun. Shit, I think I left my gun at Spencer's place… No, no it was upstairs with… Crap, it was at Henry's house. Fuck.

"When I get a hold of you I am going to put a bullet between your eyes," I snarled as my grip tightened on Spencer's phone. There was no way I was going to tell that bald headed, tattooed man that I had no weapon to do so. I'd let him bask in fear.

"With what, Detective? Both of your guns are with me and I can guarantee you won't survive if you decide to go home. So, if you are hiding any weapons there you probably won't be allowed to get them."

"Where's O'Hara," I snapped letting my weapons' location go for the time being. I could easily revisit the subject when I knew Juliet was safe.

"She's here," the man replied. I heard a gun cock, a muffled scream, and a laugh as the man said, "But I don't know how long I can keep my buddy here from not shooting her."

"If you touch on hair…"

"Relax," the man spat, the smile that had been in his voice since he called vanishing instantly. "Now, if you want to keep her breathing you are going to do something for us."

"Do something for you?" I questioned losing patience fast. Okay, I really had no patience to lose but I was slowly going from 'going-to-shoot-you-dead territory' to 'slowly-torture-you territory.' Both would really make me happy, ecstatic actually, and I was contemplating starting with the tattooed man. Plus, there was no frigging way I was about to help criminals. Too bad that presumption went out the window when the gun cocked again and I heard another muffled scream.

"What," I growled. The whole time Spencer was trying to catch my eye, silently asking me what was going on. I ignored him. I really didn't have the time to deal with him right now.

"You have something that belongs to us, and we want it back," the man replied, the unmistakable sounds of pacing reaching my ears.

"What?" I repeated unable to remember when I stole anything from a criminal. Actually the last thing I had stolen was a pack of gum when I was six. And that ended with me bursting into… manly walking into the store and giving it back with a full apology.

"It's a case file on our buddy Ricky Palmer."

"Ricky…?" and it hit me. Richard Palmer was wanted for robbing a convenient store. It was a petty crime, no one had been hurt and only sixty bucks had been taking. Vick had given it to Spencer to look into. Why the men wanted Palmer off was beyond me, with any luck the scumbag would be sentenced to five years and get out on parole in three. Criminals clearly needed to get better hobbies if you asked me.

"Yes, Ricky. He didn't do it," the tattooed man said quickly.

"There were six witnesses who put him at the scene."

"Regardless, we want his case file," the man replied completely ignoring my comment. "And if I don't have it in my hands in the next thirty minutes the pretty blonde detective gets a bullet in the chest to match the other blonde. Do I make myself clear, Lassiter?"

Okay, there was no frigging way I was going to take that deal. It was ridiculous and there was definitely another way to get O'Hara out of this. But somehow that reasoning didn't reach my mouth and I heard myself say, "Fine, where do we meet?"

The guy rattled off an address, told me to bring the psychic and no one else, and hung up. If it had been my phone in my hand I would have thrown it… Oops, I threw it anyway. Spencer's lime green covering flew off on impact, landing on the ground with an audible crack. The phone landed next to it, no doubt a crack appearing across the screen.

"Carlton, what the hell," Spencer snapped giving me a questioning look.

"We have to go," I said and stalked toward the broken window. I didn't care I was covered in blood, I didn't care the cafeteria worker was calling me back, I didn't even care if Spencer was following me or not. I had to get the stupid case file, find a gun, and save O'Hara from…

I froze, realizing there was one problem with that plan. The only person who knew where the case file happened to be was Spencer and his memory was sketchy at best. This was going to be harder than I thought.


	10. Chapter 10

**I wish they were mine. Lassie and Shawn would be in peril on a daily basis if they were…**

_**Psych**_

When Danny was ten he got mad at me and stole and hid my calculus book for revenge. Before I could beat… coax… the location out of him he went on a weeklong retreat for school and I missed my chance. For a week I was forced to share a book with Mickey Cameron, someone who seriously needed to take a shower and stop eating onions, because Mr. Bean-the name was not lost on me, though he was nothing like the character-had no other copies. That and the bastard hated me and used that week to his advantage. Asshole.

As I look back, I'd rather relive that week than be doing what I'm doing now. I mean that week was cake compared to this. In a way, I realize that week was equivalent to this day. Except, now, I was dealing with criminals who could easily kill my partner, had an almost impossible deadline hanging over my head, and the location to the only bargaining chip I had was locked inside a memory less, dumbass's head. Oh, and the off chance Spencer actually remembered where the case file was I had no weapon to defend myself with. Yeah, I'd relive that week in a heartbeat.

I stopped in front of Psych, pushing my car door open and racing toward the entrance. Normally, I would have taken the keys from the ignition, locked the doors securely, maybe activated the alarm if need be, but this time I did no such thing. There was no time. I just left it running, sitting right out front in between a ford and a light blue motorized scooter, quite possibly with the door hanging open. I couldn't be sure.

I tore open the already unlocked door, vaguely remembering leaving it unlocked mere hours before hand. I spared a moment of surprise to find nothing had been stolen. But only a moment, I was on a timetable. So, I sprinted toward Spencer's desk, carelessly pushing things onto the floor as I searched the hardwood surface.

"What is this place?" I heard Spencer ask from the front room.

"It's your…" I didn't exactly know what to call this place. I never really saw the place as an actual 'Detective Agency.' No, it was more like a twelve-year-old's hangout. But I couldn't exactly tell him that, could I? So, mostly distracted as I sat down in Spencer's chair and began digging in his desk's drawers, I settled with, "…place of business."

"The window said, 'Psychic Detective Agency.' Is this guy Gus a psychic? Do I work for a psychic?" I could hear the skepticism in Spencer's voice. He believed in psychics as much as I did, if not less. I think I would have pressed the point more, if I wasn't busy throwing everything from his desk onto the floor. I didn't even take the time to answer Spencer, either.

Six minutes later-the floor covered in gun wrappers, old broken pencils, bits of paper with no use what's-so-ever, and who knew what else-I was racing toward the door. Guster hadn't been in town when Spencer had been given the case, so I didn't expect the case file to be sitting innocently on top of the other desk.

"I guess we could check your apartment," I muttered pulling away from the Psych office and heading toward the center of town. I shuddered to think what that place looked like. I'm sure O'Hara kept it somewhat tidy, but both of them worked almost the exact same hours and I doubt either had much spare time to actually keep up with housework. Not that Spencer even bothered to clean as it is. I mean, have I mentioned his office? If it wasn't for Guster I was totally confident they would never be able to find their desks even if they were sitting in front of them.

"Or…" I glanced over at Spencer, noticing him leaning forward with his face buried in his hands. It reminded me of when he started to remember Abigail. I kept my hope at bay, afraid he wasn't remembering anything relevant. "My bike?"

"What about your bike," I asked not sure if I should redirect my Crown Vick toward the impound lot or not. I was pretty sure that's where McNabb had had the thing moved to. Just until Spencer, Guster, or Henry could pick it up.

"Well, my dad hates it for one thing," Spencer muttered. It wasn't a joke, just him stating a fact. It wasn't a fact I wanted to hear, I already knew how much Henry hated that thing. If I'm not mistaken he has called it a 'death trap' on a couple occasions. "And… there's a secret compartment under… under the seat." He was trying, I had to give him props for that, but I was losing patience fast. I really needed him to try harder. But Reynard had told us not to push him to remember things. Well, her advice be damned, I had to get that info from him.

"Did you, by any chance, put the case file in this compartment?" I asked gripping the steering wheel tightly.

"I… I…" it was slipping away, the memory, I could tell. So, I pressed harder, "Come on, Shawn. I know you can do this. Was the case file in this secret compartment?"

"I…don't…" his voice trailed off. He pressed his face into his hands, I could imagine the stars, and finally he looked up and said, "Yes, yes I did."

"You did?" I glanced over at him.

"Yes, Carlton, I did," he responded sounding irritated that I even questioned him.

"Okay," I muttered taking a hard left and speeding toward the impound. I chanced a glance at my watch, realizing I had a little less than fifteen minutes. Pressing my foot to the floor, I knew I had to hurry.

_**PSYCH**_

Butch Hanson ran the impound lot. He has been working there as long as I have been on the force, quite possibly longer, and I was always stuck dealing with him. He was also the world's biggest asshole but shooting him would lose me my job, so I kept my dislike toward him to myself. I mean, the sign on the fence says 'Open from 7:30a.m. To 10:30p.m.' It does not say 'Open from whenever the lazy asshole gets out of bed to whenever the lazy asshole gets bored and needs a beer.'

According to my watch it was 8:20, the place should have been open for almost an hour, but the fence was securely locked. I had a little over ten minutes, and I didn't have time for this shit. So, I pressed my foot to the floor and plowed through the wooden doors. They flew open, slamming into the chain link fence on either side of them. As much as I loved my car, I'd rather it be hurt than O'Hara. Plus, I had insurance.

"Remind me never to piss you off," Spencer commented his hand gripping the rubber handle attached to the door.

I chose not to reply to his comment. Truth be told, he has pissed me off on several occasions. I seriously considered shooting him a few times, but most of the time I just wanted to punch him. I would, however, never do either one. As confident as I am that Spencer probably wouldn't press charges, if I hit him, I couldn't guarantee that Vick wouldn't put me on suspension. And if I shot him… Well, I didn't want to think about that.

Just the thought of Karen made my stomach clench. I had no clue how she was doing. Hell I didn't even have any way to call and check up on her. My phone was dead and Spencer's was in pieces. And now I had to add that to my list of crap to buy for the Spencers. Damn it.

"Keep an eye out for a Norton," I said slowly driving past old and new cars that had been impounded or towed. I barely paid much attention to the vehicles with four wheels, I was looking for motorcycles.

Every few seconds I'd check my watch, my mind running an unwanted commentary of how much time was left. _'Twelve minutes now, Carlton.' 'Oops, now it's eleven.' 'Ten minutes. Damn, you'd better hurry.'_ It was pretty freaking annoying.

Finally, I found it, thank the Lord, with just under… wow, eight minutes. I really had to hurry. I threw my door open, racing toward the bike. I could hear Spencer right behind me. I couldn't be sure, but I thought he was talking. Of course, I was too busy prying at the seat. It just wouldn't budge and I was seconds away from using a piece of stray metal to rip open the leather, when I noticed the zipper on the side. I fumbled with the zipper, pulling it back to reveal what I was looking for.

"Let's go," I said after I grabbed the file. Spencer nodded and followed me back to my Crown Vick.

_**PSYCH**_

With just under a minute left, I made it. The place was in an old neighborhood, on the outskirts of Santa Barbara. I had been to the neighborhood once before to pick up a culprit. He had been hiding from his parole officer, at his grandmother's house of all places. What an idiot.

The house I pulled up to was old, possibly built in the late fifties, early sixties. It was a white, two-story with chipped paint, hanging shutters, a broken porch swing lying on its side next to the front door, nothing growing in the flowerbeds, missing fence posts. The place had obviously not been lived in for several years. It was the perfect hideout for worthless scumbags.

"What's the plan?" Spencer asked when we got out of the car. Honestly, I had no plan. Well, not much of one. I was pretty sure running in, half-assed, would end with one or both of us dead. Reluctantly, memory or none, Spencer still thought that was the best choice of action.

I guess I was silent a second longer than he wanted. He was halfway up the steps before I realized he left my side. I raced after him, trying to grab his shoulder to stop him. But a rebellious side took over me, something I have kept locked up for a long time, causing me to stop. I allowed him to continue up the steps, with me right behind him. Once we reached the front door, I pushed him behind me and I grabbed a piece of porch swing from the wooden deck.

I grabbed the doorknob, turning it slowly. The door opened easily and silently, the hinges having been recently oiled. Strange as it was, I didn't give it much thought. I had a partner to find.

Inside was a dusty, musty smelling living room/kitchen. There was barely any furniture: a broken couch, a couple dirty countertops, a few cabinets hanging from their original positions, and a lone chair sitting in the middle of the floor; a chair securing an unconscious O'Hara in place. The only problem was: where were the culprits?

"Juliet," Shawn said racing toward her. Before he could move more than a few steps, I grabbed his arm, pulling him back. "Carlton what the…" he trailed off when a bullet flew past the area he had just been standing in.

"Smart move, Lassiter," a familiar voice said. Mr. Tattoo appeared from behind a closed door, a gun in his hand. The two van guys crept down the stairs, one still carrying a bat and the other still unarmed. The final man was nowhere to be found until the door closed from behind Spencer and me. We were cornered, again, with no easy way out. I guess asking for a break would have been a pretty stupid idea right then and there. A very stupid idea…


	11. Chapter 11

**Still not mine…**

_**Psych**_

In my life I have only 'seized the moment' three times. The first time was when I was thirteen and asked Melinda Carter out. It was on a whim, just a feeling she'd say yes, and ended up with both my first kiss and first slap to the face. The second time was when I believed Victoria and I were getting back together. That ended with the inevitable signing of my divorce papers. And the third time was when I was trying to upstage Spencer with the man who was stabbed and then threw to the sharks. That ended with me being right-after being called 'Detective Dipstick' by insufferable reporters-but never getting all the credit because I gave up just before Spencer uncovered what really happened. Three separate occasions, three similar bad luck ending. I really should have thought of those moments this time, too.

I reacted without thinking, swinging the piece of broken porch swing at the man behind Spencer and me. I heard a satisfying **THUD,** followed by a **THUMP **as the guy's body hit the ground and a **CLATTER **as the gun he had been carrying landed next to him. Faster than I thought possible, I scooped up the gun and pointed at the two van guys. I fired two shots, one after the other, sending both men to the ground. One bullet implanted itself into the shorter ones chest, the other into the taller one's side. But before I could shoot the last guy, I heard a click and Spencer scream, "No, don't!"

I froze, my eyes landing on Mr. Tattoo. His face was void of any and all emotions, his gun buried into O'Hara's hair. He didn't need to say anything; I knew what he wanted and I complied without question. I dropped the .45 I had been holding, listening to it clatter against the floorboards.

"I'm thoroughly impressed, Detective," Mr. Tattoo started, running the gun through Juliet's blonde hair. "Very impressed."

"We have your file, just let her go," I said glancing at Spencer who was holding the blue folder between his hands. He had been going through it on the car ride, something I have seen him do several times before. I wasn't sure if he picked anything up, 'psychically' or otherwise, and I was awaiting the inevitable 'reveal' he normally had. Except, this time I had a feeling there probably wasn't going to be one.

"Hand me the file first," Mr. Tattoo said resting his gun right behind O'Hara's ear.

"Yeah and have you kill her soon after," Spencer said clutching the file to his chest.

"Fine," Mr. Tattoo said pulling the hammer back on his gun.

"Alright," Spencer snapped and tossed the folder to the guy. He caught it, miraculously all the pages managing to stay inside, and pulled a lighter from his pocket. "Is this everything?" he glanced up at us, unsure if we could be trusted or not.

"Yeah," I said and watched as he lit the thing on fire, not even checking to see if all the pages, in fact, were in the folder. He dropped the file into a nearby garbage can I hadn't noticed before and turned to us.

"Now, I guess I could let you go," he started glancing down at his gun. "Or," he pointed back at O'Hara, a small smile spreading across his lips, "I could just kill you. Starting with the pretty blonde."

"NO," Spencer and I said together. I should have seen this coming, or course it was going to end like this. Criminals are predictable; I learned that from my grandfather. "_Carlton, criminals aren't hard to read. None of them are. There true intentions will always be reflected in their eyes. You just need to know when to look." _And I can guarantee that this guy's true intentions had always been etched into his eyes, I just didn't see it.

"What are you going to do to stop me?"

My first impulse was to tackle the guy, send him to the ground and hopefully throw a knockout punch before he shot anyone. It wouldn't have been the most ideal choice, but the scuffle could give Spencer enough time to get O'Hara out of there. I was actually ready to pounce but froze when Spencer started talking.

"Your brother has been picking up your messes all his life," the 'psychic' started, his right hand going automatically to the side of his head. I guess there was going to be a wrap-up after all. Or as much of one as Spencer could get out with his memory the way it was. "Ricky would do anything for his older brother."

"Shut up," Mr. Tattoo said his hand gripping the gun tighter and starting to shake. A part of me really wanted Spencer to stop talking, O'Hara's life depended on it, but another part of me wanted him to keep talking. If the other guy was distracted enough, I could easily put my original plan into action.

"But… but Ricky wanted out… didn't he?" I was pretty sure Spencer was starting to remember more things, possibly why he decided to pay a visit to my house the night before. That or by looking at the file he figured out the case. Either way, I was mildly impressed, but I wasn't about to repeat that to anyone. "He was ready to give up his criminal ways. In fact, he was… he was thinking about putting… putting all his energy into fixing up this house. Isn't that right?

"And he came to you with this proposal. Came to you and told you what he was going to do. But… but you couldn't have it. You needed him… needed him as an alibi" I had a feeling the memory was slipping, especially when Spencer leaned forward and slammed his eyes shut. Despite his psyche's battle to go blank again, he was fighting it. He wanted to get these words out. "So, you… you framed him. Despite the six year age difference, you two look alike. With a well placed wig you could practically be his twin. But what you weren't counting on was your brother getting himself killed. Three days ago, down by the docks, he was shot into the river over unpaid debts. John Doe turned up in the morgue, you never identified the body. And if the cops dug… dug deep enough they'd realize your brother wasn't the guy who robbed that convenient store, that it was you, and you'd be ruined." Spencer opened his eyes, hazel eyes locking onto Mr. Tattoo's green ones.

"Shut up," Mr. Tattoo snarled swinging his gun from O'Hara to Spencer. The weapon was trained on the 'psychic's' chest, the guy's hand shaking worse than before. Almost unconsciously, I moved toward Spencer, ready to push him aside if I had to.

"You needed to get a hold of that case file, the one that placed your brother… or you at that store. So, what better way than to break into the head detective's house?" I guess his memory was coming back, I was pretty sure I hadn't told him what position I held at the SBPD. Unless O'Hara told him, and I couldn't be sure what she said to him when they were in the cafeteria together.

"So, that's why you scumbags were in my house," I said glaring at Mr. Tattoo.

"Yes, Carlton, that's why. He was looking for the file, unaware that I had it. He figured he could get in and out of your house without being seen, but he didn't consider the fact that you could come home early. And when you did, when you disrupted his plans, he decided to do the only thing he could think of. Take you out before you could share any of the information you may or may not have with the chief."

"I am warning you, Spencer," the man growled pulling the hammer back on the gun. I moved another few inches toward Spencer, my nerves on alert for a gunshot that was bound to happen.

"Can't handle the truth, Eddie? Can't handle the fact that you framed your brother, that he had died before your plan could go off without a hitch, and that you are so, so close to going to jail." His memory was definitely coming back,

"Great job, 'Psychic.' Really awe inspiring, but you're forgetting one problem. I just burnt the case file, all the evidence convicting me is now gone. What are you going to do now?"

"Actually, you're wrong," Spencer said catching both me and Eddie, apparently, by surprise. "I believe what you burnt were... were sixteen pages on a new muscle relaxant Gus… Gus was supposed to be selling. I switched it out yesterday, on my way to Lassiter's; just in case… in case you got a hold of the file. The original pages are sitting… are sitting in Gus's bottom desk drawer."

Eddie was shell-shocked for about sixteen seconds. Then he let out a half-growl and pulled the trigger. The gun had been aimed directly at Spencer's chest; there was no doubt it would have killed him, so I stepped in the way. The bullet pierced my shoulder, implanting itself just short of my shoulder blade. The pain brought me to the floor, right next to the .45 I had dropped earlier. With my injured arm, despite the fact that it was screaming at me to NOT use it, I scoped the gun up and pointed it directly at Eddie. Before he could fire another round I shot him. The bullet sailed through the air, implanted itself right between his eyes.

"Definitely remind me never to piss you off," Spencer commented crouching down next to me.

"I see you're memory's coming back faster," I muttered hissing when Spencer's fingers brushed my second bullet wound in not even twenty-four hours.

"It comes and goes."

"Great. Now leave me alone and go check on O'Hara," I snapped nodding toward my partner, who was starting to stir. Spencer nodded as he sprang to his feet and headed toward her. I watched them for a few seconds, but the blood seeping through Henry's sweatshirt caught my attention. I should really invest in full body armor. That, I think, would be a fantastic investment.

"Oh my God, Carlton," O'Hara's voice squealed, her blonde hair falling into my face when she fell to her knees next to me. She looked up at Spencer and told him to go outside, get on the radio, and call for help. Then bring her the first aid kit I keep in my backseat. He nodded and headed outside, leaving both of us alone.

"How's Karen?" she asked peeling her gray jacket off and pressing it to my arm. She made sure to avoid eye contact with me, keeping them firmly locked on my arm.

"I…I don't know," I answered truthfully. I had been trying to keep thoughts of Karen at bay until O'Hara was safe. I didn't want to screw up and get my partner killed if I let Karen's fate worry me. But now that Juliet was okay… I really had to think about it.

"She's a fighter, she'll pull through," O'Hara said sounding as if she was trying to convince herself and not me.

"Yeah," I whispered feeling the need to agree with her. I guess we both needed convincing. Before we could say anything else, Spencer was back. He handed O'Hara the metal box he had been holding and dropped down next to me.

"The ambulance will be here in a few minutes. How are you doing?" he looked at me, worry etched across his face.

"I'm fine, Spencer," I ground out as O'Hara replaced her jacket with a few pieces of gauze and pressed down harder than before. The pain was manageable but not by much. "So, how much do you remember?" I questioned, realizing that if I didn't get Spencer to talk about a new subject, he would just keep worrying about my condition.

"Um… not everything. Gus is still a bit blurry and so are you. I have some vague recollections of my father, some aren't exactly happy memories. I remember my mother some, she calls me Goose." A small smile spread across his lips at that memory. "And I remember you, Juliet." He looked at O'Hara, who had a barely concealed smile on her face at the information. "I remember some cases, this one more than the others. I put it all together on my way home from the police station and had to get over to your house to warn you." He was looking at me, informing me of why he had decided to pay an unannounced, and a truthfully unwanted, visit to my home. "The replacement pages were what brought those memories spilling back. When I spotted them it just clicked. Kind of like when Jules showed me those pictures of me and her when we were in the cafeteria." Spencer and O'Hara locked eyes, blue and hazel, and I noticed something that I had seen a few times in the years I have known them. There was no doubt these two would probably last through the long haul, unlike most relationships I have come across.

The moment was broken up by the sound of the sirens coming from outside. Juliet said she was going to flag them down and headed outside. Spencer looked down at me, not saying a word, but conveying what he wanted me to know in his eyes. _'Thank you for saving Juliet, thanks for having our backs, and thanks for being you.'_ I nodded, that moment breaking several seconds later when the paramedics came into the room and rushed toward me. I could hear one calling for a couple more buses and a coroner. But I was too busy being loaded onto a gurney to care. I just wanted to get out of here, get back to the hospital, and check on Karen. That was all that mattered to me right now. After that I'd deal with everything else.


	12. Chapter 12

**Thanks for reading. I really hope you enjoyed it and please leave a comment if you can. I still don't own these characters.**

**Bye…**

_**Psych**_

**5 days later…**

The graveyard was quiet that Sunday morning. I hadn't meant to get there so early, on the contrary I usually arrived a few hours after the gates opened, but I couldn't sleep. I walked past tombstones with names of people I had never met, names of people who had lived lives both long and short, and a few names that I recognized from my lifetime. There was one particular grave I was looking for, one particular grave I wanted to see.

It was under the shade of a beach tree, a few fallen leaves scattered around it. He hated being in the limelight, preferring to stay in the shadows. My mother wanted to bury him in a patch of sunshine, but I pleaded with her to respect his wishes until she finally agreed. Grandpa never liked to be undermined.

I was about to set a pack of cigarettes on top of the granite, lung cancer the final nail in his coffin, when I noticed someone had already beaten me to the punch. But instead of cigarettes it was a small, lumpy shaped parcel. My eyebrows shot up in suspicion, the cop in me telling me not to touch it. But then I spotted the note underneath it, my name scrawled across it in familiar handwriting. I rolled my eyes, picking the parcel up.

I placed the parcel in the nook of my arm, my sling becoming more of a hassle then it was worth, and grabbed the note. I unfolded it, reading: _**Found this in a thrift store the other day. Consider it a token of our appreciation. From both Jules and me.**_ He didn't sign it, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who it was from.

I rolled my eyes as I set the note down. Taking the oddly wrapped package into my hand, again, I clumsily began to unwrap it. I had expected to find an identical stress ball like Spencer had, but was surprised to find a watch.

The thing was silver, old, and had a long scratch across the glass screen. There were a few nicks and dings on it, but it seemed to work just fine. I could tell someone had put fresh batteries in it, most definitely O'Hara, and had set it to the correct time. There was something so familiar about the watch, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Then my fingers brushed the back, feeling a few groves across the metal.

I flipped the watch over, my eyes raking across the engraved message: _**To George. Love Maggie.**_ George was my grandfather's name and, as you can guess, Maggie was my grandmother's name. But I couldn't totally trust the names across the back. That's when the back slipped out from under my fingers. A piece of paper fell out, fluttering to the ground, and settling amongst the grass and leaves.

I crouched down, picking the folded piece of paper up. I straightened up, unfolding the yellowing, crinkled, fading page. It was from a small notebook, like the one I used several times when questioning witnesses. There wasn't much written on it, but it was all the proof I needed.

_**Carlton,**_

_**No matter what, I'll always be there.**_

_**Love,**_

_**Grandpa George.**_

I refolded the note and put it back where it belonged. Pocketing the message from Spencer and the watch, I put the cigarettes on the grave and headed toward the exit. I headed toward my car, deciding to pay Karen a visit after I checked in at the station.

_**PSYCH**_

Spencer was taping something to the bulletin board when I stepped into the station fifteen minutes later. I stopped a few inches from him, reading the announcement over his shoulder.

"Who the hell is _Señor Pineapple?"_ I asked making him jump and spin around.

"Lassie, ever think of investing in a bell? Maybe a little collar that jingles when you walk," he asked running a hand through his hair. His memory was back, unfortunately, and with it came his 'pain-in-the-ass' demeanor. I kind of missed the memory less Spencer.

"Shut up, Spencer," I grumbled. "And who authorized you to hang that up?"

"Lassie, _Señor Pineapple_ is a very important member of the Psych office. He was taken from my desk, and it couldn't be Gus because he wasn't even home. So, I was hoping someone from the department might have information."

"And this thing is…?"

"My pineapple shaped stress ball."

I had a vague recollection of throwing that thing across the room. I was pretty sure it landed behind a plant. It made me wonder why he hadn't found it yet. On any normal occasion I probably wouldn't have told him where it was, I would have made some crack about him using his 'psychic' powers to find it. But he did a huge favor for me, without knowing it, so I was going to repay the favor.

"First off, Spencer, that is the stupidest thing to be looking for. I mean, it's not even alive and you could easily buy a new one for two bucks at any gas station," I started glancing at the flyer. "And second, are you sure you checked everywhere in your office?"

"Why? Did you do something with it?" he gave me a suspicious look, probably trying to coerce a confession out of me. Please, I was a professional; I have dealt with worse suspects than him. He'd be lucky to get anything out of me any other day.

"There's a plant in the corner of your office. Check behind that." I said ignoring his question and started towards O'Hara's desk. She was in charge until I was cleared to come back by Reynard. Once I came back, I would be in charge until Karen was cleared to come back and work.

"Hey, Lassie," Spencer called making me stop.

"Yeah," I said turning to face him. Before he could answer me, Guster entered the station and headed toward us. He nodded my way, turned to Shawn, and said, "Are you almost done? I have to drop you off at your dad's and head back to Central Coast. I have to get another copy of that information _you _lost."

"Gus, I said I was sorry," Spencer said glancing at his friend.

"Shawn, it's not apologizing when you buy me a pineapple smoothie and then drink it."

"I was thirsty."

"And maybe I was, too, Shawn. Maybe I was too." Guster turned on his heel and started walking toward the door.

"Gus," Spencer called after him and raced to catch up. I rolled my eyes and continued toward O'Hara's desk. She was on the phone, glancing down at a pad of paper. She scribbled furiously as she listened, nodding her head after everything the other person said.

"Okay, Chief, I'll check. Hey, aren't you supposed to be taking it easy…?" she was quiet for a second and then, "I'm sorry I asked. Get well soon." She hung up soon after, glancing up to meet my eye. There was a slowly fading bruise across her cheek and a stitched up cut on her head, the aftermath of being kidnapped by Edwin Palmer and crew.

Palmer and a man named Jackson Carter both ended up in the morgue, while Phil Davis and Quinn Daniels ended up in the hospital. Both were under 24 hour police guard and would be escorted to jail the moment they were released. Neither were big fans of me right now, and I wasn't surprised. In my line of work I have made a lot of enemies. It was to be expected.

"You aren't supposed to be here," O'Hara commented getting to her feet. She snagged the notebook from her desk, glancing at what she had written.

"I'm not staying," I said wearily. I couldn't wait until I was able to come back to work. I was bored at home and I couldn't exactly go to the shooting range. Well, I could, but I couldn't shoot anything. So, I'd just stand there like an idiot watching other people do what I wish I could.

"You checking up on me?" She asked walking past me and toward the stairs. I followed her, nodding to a few uniforms as I passed.

"Do you have to ask?" I responded three steps behind her as she descended the stairs.

"I'm fine, Carlton. Really, Shawn was just here doing the same thing. I mean, I can see through that _Señor Pineapple_ stuff. I mean, he found it the other day. I'm not stupid." So it was a cover, a very convincing cover, but a cover nonetheless. I was impressed, not many people could lie to me and get away with it.

"So, the flyers…?" I glanced back at the bulletin board, my eyes catching the sign Spencer has tacked up there.

"It's 'proof' that he wasn't checking up on me, but I spotted _Señor Pineapple_ on his desk yesterday. It's a ruse. I have told him 'I'm fine' several times, but he doesn't believe me.

"Anyway, what do you have planned today?"

"I was going to see Karen," I replied watching as she pulled files from the file cabinet. She double checked them with the names on her notepad, then closed the drawer and started for the stairs.

"That's great. I'm sure she'll love that."

Truthfully, I haven't been to the hospital since I was discharged. I know, I should have went and checked on Vick, but I felt partially responsible for what happened to her. I know Spencer did too, but he had gone to see her, at least. He had been to the hospital every day since the accident, more so when his memory returned. I just couldn't face her. Well, today I was going to.

I said good-bye to O'Hara a few minutes later, heading outside to my car. The drive to the hospital wasn't long in reality, but in my head it was the longest drive of my life. When I finally pulled into the visitors' parking lot, parking next to a Volvo, I wasn't sure if I really wanted to go in or not. But I'm Carlton Lassiter for God's sake, I wasn't afraid of anything (except snow globes and only me and Spencer knew that) I could easily do this. So, I turned my car off, pocketed my keys, and got out.

_**PSYCH**_

I found Karen sitting up in bed, looking pale but better, with an IV sticking out of her arm. She was picking at her hospital meal-dry meatloaf, runny potatoes, and green jell-o-looking bored out of her skull. She had only been awake for thirty-six hours and already she was ready to get out of there. I didn't blame her, but I would rather her be bored than risk her health.

"Hello," I said knocking on the doorframe. She looked up, a smile spreading across her lips. She pushed her unfinished meal to the side and gestured me to come into her room. I stepped over the threshold, crossing the room to sit down in an unoccupied chair next to her bed.

"How's the arm?" she asked after a moment of awkward silence.

"Better," I replied glancing at my sling. "How's… How are you?"

"I've been better," she responded tiredly. I guess almost dying twice could do that to anyone. Her husband had told O'Hara who had told me that Karen's heart had stopped once in the ER and once on the operating table. Iris had come close to being without her mother. And losing a parent is the most unpleasant experience to ever happen to a child. Danny and I were prime examples of that, except our dad didn't die. He just up and left us one day: no note, no phone call, no explanation at all…

"Carlton, are you okay?" I glanced up, meeting Karen's eye. I hadn't realized she had been talking, too caught up in my thoughts.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I replied running a hand through my hair. "Where's Peter?" Karen's husband hadn't left her side since the incident. O'Hara told me they tried to make him go home, but he refused to go and ended up in a screaming match with a nurse. It ended when Reynard stepped in. She promised to talk to the Chief of Staff and he ended up agreeing to let Peter Vick stay as long as he wanted.

"I told him to go home and take a shower, maybe catch a few hours of sleep. He'll be back later with Iris."

"Oh." We lapsed into another long, awkward silence. I looked down at my shoes, wondering when I had gotten dirt all over the left one. I was almost certain we would have stayed like that for a while longer if a nurse hadn't come in to change Karen's bandages and check her vitals.

"I'd better go," I said pushing myself to my feet. I walked past the nurse, stepping into the hall.

"Carlton!" Karen's voice made me stop. "I'll tell you exactly what I told Mr. Spencer. I don't blame you. I was doing my job when I was shot. There was nothing either of you could do."

"I'll keep that in mind," I said slowly. "Get better soon."

I started toward the elevators, intending to take a drive to my mother's-it was the anniversary of her father's death and all-when I heard a familiar voice call my name. I turned, spotting Reynard hurrying toward me. Her red hair was pinned back; her green scrubs making her eyes stand out. I guess I never noticed how pretty she was before. Of course, I was a little too busy to really _see_ her before.

"I take it you're not here to be stitched up," she said tucking her clipboard, she had been holding, under her arm. She had said, when I was admitted with my shoulder wound, that, "_I should start handing you out frequent flyer miles for the amount of times you have been admitted."_

"No," I replied giving her a small smile, "I was just here visiting Chief Vick."

"I kind of figured," she muttered giving me a crooked smile. We were quiet for a second, neither of us sure what to say. I took a deep breath, let it out, and said, "Well, I'd better go."

"Okay," she responded someone calling her name. "I guess I'll see you around."

"Yep," I said pressing the button to call the elevator.

"Bye, Detective Lassiter," she said. I nodded to her, the elevator doors opening. I stepped inside, pressed the L, and gave her one last wave. She waved back, the doors closing seconds later. As I rode the elevator, I took my grandfather's watch from my pocket.

I hadn't seen it since I was sixteen, not since that guy stole it from my wrist. Not since Jacob McGee was shot and killed trying to stop two men from robbing his store. I hadn't thought about that day in years, an occasional nightmare the only thing that ever reminded me of what happened. I couldn't believe it was just sitting in a thrift store, all these years, and no one ever bought it. I guess that old saying was right about how something you let go will come back into your possession if it really was supposed to be yours. It took over two decades, but I guess this watch was really mine.

I put the watch back in my pocket, the doors opening a few seconds later. I started toward the exit, stopping when my phone started to ring. I pulled it from my coat pocket, barely sparing a glance at the caller id. Unknown Caller flashed back at me. Whoever it was, there number wasn't in my phone. I rolled my eyes, figuring it was Spencer calling from a pay phone or something, and flipped it open.

"Spencer, don't you have anything better…" a voice interrupted me, a voice I hadn't heard in almost ten years. I didn't know how he got my number, probably Mom, but it was no doubt who was on the phone. And I truly couldn't believe.

"Danny…?" I didn't know whether to yell at him or not. So, I landed on, "How are you?" he told me he was fine, told me he was in Florida living with a friend. "Oh, and which friend would that be?"

"Now, don't give me that crap that I don't know her." I started toward my car, listening to my brother's response. "Because she could be a psycho." Again I waited. "No, I'm not being paranoid." I slid behind the wheel of my Crown Vick, rolling my eyes when Danny said his next words. "No I won't do a background check on her." Although I was thinking about it, but that didn't stop me from responding with a, "No, I wasn't thinking about it." he was quiet for a second and then said four words I never thought he'd say. I was stunned for a second and then I said, "I miss you too, Danny." And I did, even though he annoyed me to no end when we were growing up, and had me wanting to kick his ass a few times. He was my brother after all and that was all that mattered. And at the end of the day, that was all I needed…

**END…**


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